Growing Pains
by ruth baulding
Summary: Jedi training has its ups and Vignettes set between already published Lineage installments; various genres - Chapter 31: the rest of the story...
1. Chapter 1

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Upon Arrival**

Jedi apprentice Obi-Wan Kenobi sat on the front porch of the Udoni homesteaders' simple pre-fab dwelling, and did not sulk.

Jedi apprentices do not sulk, ever. And so he did not resent the noonday sun beating upon the parched earth a mere half-meter from his feet, which were tucked up under his body as he hunched beneath the insufficient shade of the overhang, cloak bunched beneath him as protection from the scalding metal panels beneath his rump. He did not mentally complain about the sticky perspiration rolling down his back and the insides of his trouser legs, or the itching burn on his fair skin where the sun's merciless beating had already scorched him in the course of the short hike here. He did not succumb to the insistent whining of his empty stomach or the sour taste in his mouth, which was cottony and dry with thirst. And he especially did not indulge in any dark thoughts or wounded feelings at being told to _wait here_ while the 'grown-ups' conducted their business inside.

He squinted hard, eyes roving across the wasted plains, searching for any sign of life, whether vegetable or animal. How purported farmers could make a living off _nothing as far as the eye could see_ was a mystery beyond his ken. Heaving a sigh – just a deep breath, not a sign of frustration, he cast his gaze down again, tracing over and over the scuffed and scratched hilt of his training saber, the weapon he bore more as symbolic emblem of his rank and Padawan learner's oath than as effective defense. Soon – he hoped – he would be permitted to build a _real_ one – his own personal lightsaber, the Jedi Knight's only true possession and honored artifact, a thing compounded of sentient skill and the Force itself.

But for now, of course, he was stuck waiting here on some squatter family's star-forsaken porch while Master Qui-Gon farked about inside with the natives. Who, by the way, were bald-faced liars.

That was an unbecoming thought, and he shoved it away into the Force, into the hazy and wavering distance where the horizon rippled and shuddered into a dusty red line. Maybe they weren't _liars, _ per se. Maybe they were just _stupid._

Because there certainly wasn't any other Force sensitive child here at all. Nobody besides Qui-Gon and himself. What could have motivated a small family of poverty-stricken subsistence farmers to court Jedi attention by claiming to have a baby with esoteric powers of telekinesis or extra-sensory perception, he could not guess. Did they not consider the consequences of such a ruse, once it was discovered? There were no neighbors here to impress, no media to entertain, no social standing to improve… nothing.

Perhaps the heat simply drove people mad out here on this hellish moon. That might be the explanation. But then, why was his master taking so _blasted _long to deal with the situation? He could hear the genteel rise and fall of Qui-Gon's voice behind the thin door panel, the muted cadence and occasional pauses suggesting that the Jedi master was making a comm transmission all the way to Coruscant, using their nearby ship's system as a booster.

Maybe he was summoning reinforcements to come _arrest_ the felonious inhabitants for wasting the Order's time. But that wouldn't be like Qui-Gon at all. He let his head fall back against the flaking protective coating of the wall behind him, wiggling in place until his short nerftail settled in a groove between two warped plastoid panels. Then he shut his eyes, exhaled long and slowly - and went back to diligently not pouting.

* * *

When all the arrangements had been made, Qui-Gon Jinn excused himself and stepped outside to check on his padawan. The air outside was perhaps a few degrees cooler than the stifling confines of the farmers' dwelling – for there was a murmur of wind, a sweltering caress of heat whispering over the baked and cracked fields. The volcanic fallout here had been devastating, reducing the land to a uniform barrenness. But he understood the family's desire to jealously guard this stake: in two or three years time, the ash would have transformed this soil to fertile abundance, especially after the biannual rains fell. Until then….

He crouched beside his young apprentice, who had fallen asleep, head drooping at an awkward angle. The boy's cheeks were flushed a brilliant crimson in contrast to his pale and sweat-sheened forehead. One hand sprawled limply at the young Jedi's side, the other still curled about his 'saber's hilt. He somehow looked much younger than his nearly fourteen years, much more delicate than Qui-Gon knew him to be. Like the dancing mirages on the horizon, the heat wove illusion even here.

He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Obi-Wan. Wake up."

A pair of marine blue eyes squinted dully at him, arrested between the present moment and some feverish dream. The tall man reached out and shook the young Jedi's empty water canteen. His own was half-full; this he thrust into his apprentice's free hand.

"Drink."

Obi-Wan obeyed, on reflex, before he was alert enough to understand the implications. He drained the flask, gulping down the tepid and mineral laden contents without taking a breath, and then groggily handed it back.

And then he blinked fully awake. "Master! That was _your_ water!"

Qui-Gon stood, offering his padawan a hand up. "It went to a good use."

The young Jedi frowned at the warped baseboards, guilt dragging his shoulders down a trifle. "I was fine without it."

"Hm. Are you ready? We will depart in a few minutes."

Now Obi-Wan looked out across the blazing expanse between them and the Republic shuttle, eyes squinched nearly closed against the painful influx of light. "Could we not wait until sunset, master?" He tilted his face up to address Qui-Gon, worrying slightly at his lower lip.

"Then we would trade the discomfort of heat for the more acute danger of predators. And we have stayed long enough already; we will not impose on them further."

The boy disguised his disappointment well. "Yes, Master." Only the barest hint of sullenness underlay his tone.

Qui-Gon fixed him with a sternly appraising look. "You are not feeling ill-used, are you, Padawan mine?"

Alarmed at being caught out so easily, Obi-Wan blushed a furious shade of vermillion, sunburned cheeks darkening further with shame. "No, Master… I'm sorry."

Brows rising, the tall man privately wondered which it was, but took pity on his heat-befuddled companion. "I'll be just a moment. Wait here," he instructed, ducking back inside the house's dim and baking interior.

When he returned a few minutes later, a heavy knapsack upon his back and his cloak bundled and slung over one arm, his padawan offered no further complaint and asked no questions. They set out over the grey plain, trudging along side by side and then single file as Obi-Wan lagged behind. The Jedi master paused, held out an arm, and shepherded the boy forward with a hand on his back.

"Put your cloak on," he advised. "Better roast than suffer further sunburn."

Miserably, they shuffled across the unvarying and desolate landscape until the land dipped, revealing a small natural crater and the shuttle tucked away against one of its sloping walls. The sun hammered down upon them, setting the earth beneath their weary feet afire, and sapping their bodies of vitality. When they reached the crater's rim, Obi-Wan was wobbling on his feet.

"Easy, young one."

They slipped and slid down the crumbling slope, landing in a heap of grit and pebbles at its foot. The young Jedi all but dashed for the ramp with the heady enthusiasm of a child released to play in some wonderland; he disappeared into the relatively cool hold in a flash of cream and brown cloth.

Qui-Gon followed at a more sedate pace, carefully depositing his burden in a storage locker in the aft cabin. He tossed his cloak onto an inset bunk, beside his apprentice's hastily discarded one, and rummaged in the provisions cabinet for more water. He emptied a liter container and reached for another, then proceeded through narrow passage into the cockpit, where Obi-Wan already had all systems online and the atmospheric regulator set to an arctic chill.

"We are headed into space, Padawan," he remarked, slipping into the pilots' seat. "I do not want to hear a single word of lamentation about the _cold."_

"You won't, Master," the boy grimly assured him. "I promise." He accepted the bottle of water and drained half of it in one long pull.

The navcomp happily bleeped its readiness, and Qui-Gon lifted them off the ground on repulsors. "We'll head straight back to Coruscant," he informed his companion. "This course setting should get us to the Temple during morning cycle… perhaps you should prepare that diplomatics assignment after all. You can attend Master Wi-Mu's lecture before the Council report."

Objection was not an option for a Jedi apprentice, so Obi-Wan dutifully retired to the passenger compartment, leaving his mentor in to meditate upon the mission's outcome as they climbed through the smoke-ridden atmosphere and into the stars beyond.

* * *

Obi-Wan awoke from an unintentional nap he was not taking.

He scrabbled for his datapad, only to find that it had slipped to the deck, sustaining a hairline fracture in the process. "Blast it." He snapped the device to standby and shoved it into his small bag. Diplomatics was his best subject, anyway – after swordsmanship – and he really didn't need to review the material.

He sat shivering on the edge of the bunk for a moment before he realized that he was chilled to the bone. He was also forbidden to utter a single word of lamentation about being cold, so he settled for another vague and inclusive, "_Blast it,"_and went to see about the therm regulator instead. Only to find that Qui-Gon had already adjusted it to a proper setting, and that a warm trickle was descending steadily from the air cycling vents overhead.

He tucked his head down and pressed a finger against his exposed collarbone. When he released the pressure, a bright white patch stood out against a flaming pink background.

"_Blast and confound it," _he griped, for good measure. He had never been sunburned as an initiate – but life in Qui-Gon Jinn's company had provided him with more than one opportunity to expand his horizons in that regard. His heartfelt assertion that he would rather freeze his arse off on an uninhabited iceball than tramp through another desert or tropical "paradise" seemed to have no weight with either his master or the Jedi Council; he had been obliged instead to swallow his objections and simply seek out the most effective remedy as a universal precaution.

He rummaged in his pack and found the canister of bacta infused liniment at the bottom, amid a scattering of crumbs from an unwrapped protein bar, the extra power cell for his comlink, and one or two pretty rocks he had picked up in the course of their last journeys. There was also a rumpled flimsi brochure, one which proved to be – upon reinspection – the glossy publicity handbill for sky-jumping lessons on Yarbel 9, a tourist venue to which Qui-Gon had teasingly offered to take him as an early life-day gift.

Snorting, he levitated the frayed advertisement into the shipboard 'cycler's chute and popped open the jar of medicinal cream. After liberally smearing the affected areas with sticky glop, he rolled himself into his cloak and grumpily contemplated the opposite bulkhead until his flare of annoyance had died down sufficiently to let him reach into the Force's healing currents.

If he had been allowed to sulk, he would have blamed the long vigil on the settlers' front porch. Deprived of this obvious source of consolation, he was obliged to attribute his present discomfort to the will of the Force… a notion that invited uncomfortable speculation about what he had done to _deserve_ such treatment at its hands.

He decided to go back to his unintentional nap instead.

* * *

They had just reverted from hyperspace and entered Coruscant's star system on sublights when Qui-Gon felt the cockpit hatch slide open behind him.

He glanced sideways as his apprentice inserted himself in the co-pilot's chair and peered through the viewport at the tiny glittering orb ahead. "Did you put something on that sunburn?" he inquired.

"Yes, Master." An aggrieved sigh. The boy obviously felt the burn was his master's fault, but had the sense not to voice this irrational sentiment.

Recent events had put Qui-Gon in a slightly maudlin mood, or he would not have tolerated the unspoken complaint. Now, he merely offered a rueful smile and a mild retort.. "I do not _choose_ these assignments, Obi-Wan. A Jedi goes where he is needed."

A soft snort. "We were hardly needed _there,"_ Obi-Wan griped.

Ah…. he had not anticipated such a misunderstanding. It made sense, of course – he had left the padawan outside while the stricken farmsteaders made their tragic revelation to him in privacy – but it was not fitting for a Jedi, even a young one in training, to jump to such irritable conclusions. "What makes you think that?" he replied, levelly.

Already his apprentice knew this leading question to be a warning of some pitfall to come, but he answered anyway, possibly craving a confrontation. Obi-Wan was patient and intelligent – especially for his age – but he would seldom back down from an argument, certainly never on account of intimidation.

And he was true to form now. "My thinker," he blandly replied, brows lifting into a sarcastic arch.

"I wonder that agile faculty of yours did not caution you against impertinence," the tall man smoothly countered. "Perhaps you should ask whether the sun exposure has been detrimental to its functioning."

Obi-Wan directed his answering scowl at the console, rather than his master, proof that wisdom had not _entirely_ fled his grasp. His arms crossed over one another in a familiar posture of vexation. "I thought it," he grudgingly explained, "because we were sent there to collect a Force-sensitive child they _claimed_ to have, and when we arrive there was no such person there. They were… mistaken. Or deceiving us."

Qui-Gon leaned back, switching the helm controls to automatic as they cruised toward the planet at an economical speed. "There is another type of fool besides the liar and the idiot," he told his young charge. "And I assure you our hosts were neither."

"Then what were they?"

The Jedi master sighed. "People," he answered tightly.

A pause, in which the drives idled on active standby, and the Force thrummed with unresolved tension. The tall man stood. "The third kind of fool is one who lets personal annoyance blind him to possibilities."

The words hurt. Obi-Wan stood, eyes sparking with wounded feelings.

"Come this way," the tall man ordered. They passed into the passenger compartment. "What did you feel in the Force when we arrived at the homestead?"

The padawan sighed. "Nothing. I didn't feel anyone – that's how I knew the mission was a waste of time. If there had been a youngling there like they said, I would have-"

Qui-Gon's look silenced him. "The Udoni have an innate capacity to shield their emotions. You would not have felt anything. But that was not reason to conclude they were telling a falsehood."

They passed into the aft hold. Obi-Wan looked up at his master, visibly piqued. "Then why don't we have a youngling with us?" he demanded, a trickle of anxiety making itself felt in the Force as he picked up …._something_ across their shared bond.

The Jedi master exhaled slowly. "We do." He opened the storage locker, and then the flap of his heavy pack. A shape swathed in linen strips and wrapped in a simple embroidered cloth was nestled within. He took his apprentice's hand and gently set it upon the curve of this small object, his own fingers spread atop the young Jedi's.

A moment, in which the Force spoke invisibly, physical contact giving the realization the power of a kick in the gut. Obi-Wan's face came round, eyes wide now with terrible knowledge. "Oh."

Qui-Gon let him go, and gravely closed the locker again.

His companion was staring at the deck, silent. He tipped the boy's chin upward with one hand, watching the tears softly well and fall.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry," Obi-Wan hoarsely said. "I was arrogant, Master."

"Yes." There was no point denying a truth that would leave a salutary lesson in the wake of its initial painful discovery. "But you are also compassionate. I'm sorry their social customs forbade you entrance; they do not permit any child to see the corpse of another." He wiped away a trailing bead of moisture.

"The volcanic eruption, and the toxic gases, and the heat," Obi-Wan succinctly concluded.

Qui-Gon nodded heavily. "They requested that the Order still take the child …. The Council have agreed to funeral rites in the Temple." He rested a hand upon the boy's shoulder. "And you will not be expected to wait outside during the ceremony, Padawan."

"Yes, Master." Obi-Wan took a tentative step closer, a tiny request for forgiveness, one granted with a brief smile of encouragement and an affectionate tug upon his braid.


	2. Chapter 2

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Finders Keepers**

The pavement and gutters were littered with the jetsam of last night's coronation parade: confetti, broken glass, the glitzy wrappers of fireworks, crumpled food cartons, a few forlorn and rumpled banners that had fallen from their fluttering glory atop the city's fancifully shaped roofs.

Obi-Wan Kenobi picked his way among the obstacles, especially the more dubious puddles of liquid that here and there punctuated the narrow pedestrian walkway, following doggedly in his master's footsteps as they retraced the royal cavalcade's path. He knew, with the dutiful and correct part of himself that _always_ knew such things, that he ought to be attending to their present quest, one unexpectedly imposed upon them by the capricious Dowager and accepted without complaint by the Jedi ambassador to the Court. He understood, with the cynical acuity of a person much older than fifteen standard, that there was such a thing as diplomatic grace, and that Qui-Gon was possessed of this useful virtue to an enviable degree. And he could _see,_ with a pair of blue eyes only mildly bleary from the aftereffects of sustained revelry the evening previous, that the tall man was intent on completing the assigned mission with the skill and aplomb befitting a warrior-monk of their revered Order.

But he just couldn't put his heart into it.

They passed a shuttered restaurant specializing in exotic meat delicacies, the sign over its door proclaiming that its proprietor catered to the Royal House. "Perhaps our missing friend will reappear _upon_ the Dowager's table rather than beneath it," he suggested, darkly.

"Obi-Wan."

"You said I should not allow personal annoyance to blind me to possibilities," the padawan retorted, with a droll lift of his brows.

The Jedi master spoke without turning around. "You seem to be overlooking the possibility of discipline."

They stepped over a foaming spout of sewage runoff and continued on, the padawan careful to keep his boots dry. A cold draught whispered from the grilled outlet. "There are probably womprats down there. …Large, aggressive, carnivorous ones."

Qui-Gon sighed and came to a halt, arms akimbo. "Shall I send you down to investigate?"

A sarcastic glimmer in the Force's currents spoiled the effect of Obi-Wan's contrite bow. "Not when such a noble and worthy cause demands our fullest attention, Master."

"Do you hear that?" The tall man theatrically lifted a hand to his ear. "That is the sound of noble and worthy weeds sprouting in the meditation gardens at the Temple. When we return, _they_ will demand your fullest attention."

His apprentice limited his repartee to a tight-lipped glower.

"You grow wiser by the day, young Padawan," Qui-Gon said, chucking him lightly under the chin.

And they were on their way again, pursuing their ludicrous quest to reunite the pining noblewoman with the foremost joy of her life, her staunchest supporter and companion, the very apple of her rheumy eye. The parade route meandered on through the main thoroughfares and grand ceremonial arch of the Triumphal Unity Plaza, then headed up the tree-flanked hill to the palace grounds. Haughty state residences peered disdainfully over high walls to either side.

At the last of these on the right hand side, Qui-Gon suddenly halted and dropped to one knee, extending an open hand beneath a stretch of fanciful grillwork. He made a strange _tsk-tsk-tsk_ noise deep in his throat, a cajoling summons to some unknown audience hidden behind the massive gatepost.

Obi-Wan glanced warily up and down the deserted avenue, relieved to see that none were present to behold one of the Force's devoted servants descend into the piteous depths of insanity. "Master..."

"Quiet, Padawan. You will frighten him." the earnest humming and clucking and whistling continued unabated for another few minutes.

Obi-Wan shifted position, taking up a sentinel's post a few paces away and studiously ignoring his teacher's undignified antics.

Presently the Force yawned wide with a melting command to _be at peace- _ a soothing tidal wave of reassurance emanating from the crouching Jedi master. A moment later Qui-Gon stood, triumphantly drawing a bundle of variegated fur out from beneath the gate, while his apprentice all but slumped into the wall in a daze.

An amused tug on his braid brought him jolting back to his senses. "I did not mean you, young one," the tall man smirked, now striding up the street at a confident gait that forced his smaller companion to jog alongside him.

"Abuse of power is against the Code," Obi-Wan grumbled, peering suspiciously at the soft ball of claws and ears nestled in the crook of his master's arm.

"On the contrary." They trotted up a wide ceremonial staircase leading to a sheltered fountain courtyard. "An obedient padawan is a great blessing. Or so I have heard tell."

His young companion snorted in mild derision. "I heed your words, oh my master…. are you quite sure we've apprehended the right suspect?"

The Jedi master spared him a quizzical glance. "He matches the description quite well; these lap-breeds are highly recognizable. And anxious – I could feel his distress clearly."

"One pathetic life form is as good as the next," his apprentice muttered.

"Oh?" Qui-Gon lifted the small creature up by its generous scruff. It hung limply, secure in the unbounded compassion of its savior, all large eyes and soft, bristling fur and adorably clumsy limbs. "He rather reminds me of you, actually."

This teasing assertion earned him a cold shoulder all the way up the grand promenade to the gubernatorial palace grounds, where their progress was abruptly barred by the crossed energy pikes of the Royal Honor Guard.

"Name and business."

"Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn. I have come to return a piece of lost property to the Dowager."

The men squinted doubtfully at the tufted ears and dangling tail of the lost property in question, but the lightsaber hanging at the speaker's side seemed to provide an eloquent and convincing argument against forbidding him entrance. They waved the small party of three into the reception hall, where chandeliers hovered on repulsors and their boots echoed vastly against polished marble.

The Head of Staff greeted them with an obsequious bow. "I am sorry, but Her Grace has retired for her afternoon nap, not to be disturbed upon any account."

Qui-Gon nodded tersely. "She requested our help in recovering a valued member of her retinue; perhaps you would be so kind –"

The meticulously attired butler looked askance at the animal mewling and wriggling in the fold of the tall man's cloak. His nose wrinkled at the prospect of permitting his eccentric royal guest to keep such company under the palace roof. "I am afraid we are not.. equipped to supervise milady's ah, _retinue,_ Master Jedi. If you would care to wait in the gardens?"

Obi-Wan recognized the disgruntled shift in his master's posture, but kept his eyes fixed on the inlaid floor as befitted a paragon of meek submission such as himself.

"I must attend the post-coronation cabinet meeting."

The major domo sniffed. Affairs of state were not in his purview.

_Mind trick,_ the padawan silently advised his mentor. An admonitory frown quelled this bluntly pragmatic suggestion.

"Obi-Wan. Wait here in the gardens. And see to it _personally_ that the Dowager is reunited with her friend."

The young Jedi's mouth popped open in protest as the bundle of squirming teeth and claws was thrust unceremoniously into his arms.

Qui-Gon rested a large hand upon his shoulder, limpid blue eyes meeting the boy's with open affection. "I gave her my word –and I trust you to preserve the Order's honor. A small task is not less inherently important than a great one."

Disarmed and gently chastised in one fell swoop, Obi-Wan pressed his lips together and bowed his understanding, tightening his hold upon the already markedly less placid creature in his care.

"This way," the head of staff instructed him, setting off down a connecting passage.

In answer to the last pleading glance cast over his apprentice's brown-robed shoulder, Qui-Gon merely offered a curt wave and a small smile of encouragement before turning on his heel and heading for the upper levels and the absorbing task of diplomatic etiquette.

* * *

The palace gardens were groomed to perfection. Not a fallen leaf sullied the pristine lawn, cropped to a regulation length just shorter than the padawan's closely trimmed hair; the topiary bushes had been pruned into severe conformity with their fanciful wirework frames; the graveled path raked into flawless smoothness, the ornamental statuettes polished to a sheen in the light softly filtering through aviary netting overhead. Small hum-birds floated here and there, sipping at the extravagant bell-shaped flowers, their wings sounding like tiny repulsor units as they flitted from feast to feast.

Obi-Wan dropped his writhing burden to the soft grass and settled himself beneath a shady tree, wondering if it would be considered rude to _meditate _ here. On Palabria, when he and Qui-Gon had stopped to meditate in a secluded park, they had been soundly upbraided for committing the crime of religious zealotry in public. But here there was a small sculpture of a very fat bald man with a merry grin plastered on his face, sitting in a clearly recognizable meditation posture along a bend in the footpath; from this the young Jedi inferred that his own non-obtrusive communion with the Force would not draw undue censure on this world.

He peered balefully at the Dowager's long lost companion, which was making a thorough reconnaissance of the entire enclosure, snuffling and grunting and digging in the mulch here and there. He supposed he _ought_ to prevent it doing any damage to the horticultural curator's masterpiece… but the mutinous and adolescent part of him reflected that he had only been charged with _delivering _ said fluffy and odiferous specimen, not supervising its antics. He closed his eyes and plunged gratefully into the Force's supernal currents, the commotion of the sensory world reduced to a vague mummery played upon a quaint and verdant stage. Inhale… exhale: the irritation of the past few hours faded into nothingness.

It was the beast's infernal yapping that shattered his serenity some time later. Eyes snapping open, he glanced round to discover that in his… absence… the confounded pest had dug up a good deal of the nearest flower bed and strewn gravel over the manicured lawns. He offered the statuette of the smiling monk a fleeting and wry grimace of envy – apparently only _one_ of them would be enjoying a peaceful afternoon.

He found his hirsute charge barking furiously at a small gap beneath the outer garden wall, its hackles raised into an electric furor, its fangs bared in a haughty and territorial snarl, tail curled down, ears flat, and generally looking like Master Qui-Gon being reprimanded by the Jedi Council for one of his characteristic outrages against protocol.

He squatted down and did his best imitation of this latter person's soothing noise routine – but the cheap redaction only earned him a baritone growl and an attempt at snapping off his fingers. Genuinely annoyed, he pinned the little reprobate down with the Force and grabbed it up by the scruff before it could do any real harm, though the foam specks adorning his cloak sleeve did not endear it to his heart any further.

"Calm down. Breathe. Think," he chided, suffusing these stern, masterly instructions with a generous helping of persuasive power. The thing subsided, staring at him drunkenly as he dangled it in midair.

There was a scuffling, whimpering sound from the other side of the gate. Curious.

Unsure how else to pacify his fractious companion, he touched its soft forehead with one finger. "Sleep." He laid its suddenly limp form beneath a flowering _risi _ and dropped to his belly, peering through the ragged gap in the wall.

A neat chestnut paw batted at his nose as he curiously gazed beneath the opening – and then a whisker came into view, a pink nose, a flash of variegated fur. And a soft chime of bells, as of the sort fixed to pets' collars by effete Coreworld householders. The whimpering increased in intensity as he snaked his hand through the tiny breach in the wall. A rough moisture licked across his fingers, and a rasping paw-pad scraped at his skin.

The Force whispered in his ear, and he caught his breath, not daring to laugh at the joke.

He withdrew the arm, provoking a desperate resurgence of scuffling and whining on the opposite side. He fumbled at his belt for a moment and found one of the unappetizing protein pellets he carried as emergency rations. It would have to suffice.

"_Tsk-tsk-tsk,"_ he wooed his unseen visitor, thrusting the bait back through the opening. Eager teeth snatched it from his hand, and then a warm tongue sought more. Grunting, he fetched another pellet out from its place and broke the capsule seal, coating his fingers in the grainy powder.

"Here you go… come here…"

A head squeezed beneath the wall, seeking his retreating fingers. The thing was all huge eyes and soft bristling fur and adorably clumsy limbs. His heart melted – a little. Not like Master Qui-Gon, who would offer succour to any pathetic life form, regardless of consequence or circumstance. This was completely different. The smiling monk statue grinned with avuncular approval , with jolly agreement. One paw, another paw – the thing was stuck.

It took a great deal of baby-talk and a touch of the Force to ease the poor creature all the way through, but in the end he managed it – and was rewarded with a thorough licking of his hands and face, not to mention a smattering of muddy pawprints up his tunics and over his trousers. He drew the line when it attempted to nip at his learner's braid, engaging the joyous ruffian in an impromptu wrestling match, rolling it about on its back and mercilessly tickling its stomach until it yelped for quarter. When it sprawled panting upon the crushed grass, he leaned forward to examine its rhinestone crusted collar. The delicate medallion beside the obligatory bell was engraved with a name.

"_Pookiss_," he read aloud. "But then, who is….?"

The snoring wastrel beneath the _risi_ jolted awake, as though aware of his scrutiny, and the sudden suspicion of its imposter's status. It leapt to its feet, arched its back and hissed loudly, before bolting through the gap in the wall with the speed and agility of a practiced felon.

"Never mind him," the padawan advised his new companion. "Easy come, easy go."

When he eventually returned to his interrupted meditation, Pookiss obliged him by curling up in his lap.

* * *

"Oh! _Pooooooookiss!"_ a shrill female voice cried, breaking the serene spell and sending the owner of this name into a frenzy of recognition.

Obi-Wan blinked away the remnants of his deep trance and stood, disoriented by the changed light; the day had dissolved into early evening, stripes of gold and indigo falling majestically over the textured garden plots.

"Oh, I can never thank you enough, Master Jinn! And this… this must be your dear apprentice!"

The padawan made a deep bow to the Dowager, hastily pulling his cloak closed over his soiled tabards and trouser- knees while Qui-Gon made the necessary introductions.

"Thank you for watching Pookis this afternoon," the regal woman simpered, extending a bejeweled hand for him to kiss.

He bent over her fingers and then met Qui-Gon's proud gaze. "We come to serve," he replied levelly, glancing at the hole in the garden wall, which he had resourcefully plugged up with the smiling monk's statue - on the reasonable supposition that the monk, like a Jedi, would not harbor any objection to his humiliating position so long as it ameliorated the suffering of other sentients.

"Oh, you're such a good boy! Yes, you are! Such a cutie-cootie-boo-boo!"

The Jedi master's eyes crinkled at the corners as he observed his apprentice's rigid posture in the half-second before the boy realized these last fawning remarks were addressed to the Dowager's darling pet.

She graced them with a final airy smile and retreated into the shelter of the palace, embroidered train dragging behind her, Pookiss securely clamped under one lace-covered arm.

"Another mission brought to a happy conclusion," Qui-Gon remarked, as the Jedi exited a few moments later.

"Yes, Master."

"The gardens are a beautiful spot to meditate," the tall man said. "I was glad to see that you overcame your initial reluctance to participate in our search and rescue operation. Did you reach a new insight today?"

"Yes, Master. I did." Obi-Wan's mouth twitched infinitesimally. He fell into step beside the great Jedi, matching his shorter stride to the tall man's ground-eating steps until they walked in perfect amiable synchrony.

"We did not have much opportunity to explore this world," Qui –Gon lamented. "Perhaps we can peruse the datafiles a bit during our return transit."

"I would like that, Master… I am very curious about the native possukink. It sounds like a fascinating species."

"Really? Why?"

The young Jedi shrugged, eyes dancing as he made a great show of studying the far horizon. If the joke was on his revered mentor, it would nonetheless remain a private one between him and the Force. "Oh, no reason."

Qui-Gon Jinn was too wise to press any further.


	3. Chapter 3

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**A Lucky Escape**

"Just a little further," Qui-Gon Jinn lied.

His apprentice sagged against him, panting. "Yes, Master." And then his knees gave way.

A little further became _right here._ They sank down beneath the scorched tips of tela-grass, boots sliding in the ash-coated topsoil. Obi-Wan's grip slackened before he hit the ground, sending him falling softly to the burned earth where he curled in an aching ball. Qui-Gon lay beside him, stretched out supine beneath the concealing horizon of tall stalks, his sensed extended in a wide net, alert to any sign of pursuers.

The droid probes would come first, and the obscuring grass would be insufficient shelter from their heat and bio-sign sensors - but that could not be helped.

"How far?" Obi-Wan demanded, voice hoarse with the screams he had not permitted to tear loose from his throat.

"A little further." Five klicks, as the thranctill flew. A short sprint for them, under ordinary circumstances; a death march with his padawan in such dismal condition. He reached sideways and laid his hand against the young Jedi's forehead, wiping away a fresh sheen of sweat and grimacing a little at the spiking heat beneath the boy's skin.

A determined nod. "A little further. I can do it." The Force shimmered, gathering in tumultuous clouds, brewing about the padawan's tenuous center.

"No," the tall man gently admonished. "Heal first – then we'll make another foray."

If they didn't move fast, they would be surrounded and cut off. He exhaled slowly. The present moment. The Force.

His apprentice lay on his side, chest heaving. "…following us."

Alarm flared within the older man. "You sense something?" Their gifts were different, complementary – and he was badly distracted.

A hand – bloodstained fingernails stark against grimy, pale skin – wavered upward and traced a dizzy circle against the reeling sky. "Clouds," Obi-Wan explained, a sharp furrow of concern between his brows.

Qui-Gon caught the hand and pressed it down, against the earth, beneath his own. He squeezed gently. "You're delirious. You need to sleep." _Blast this star-forsaken world and its murderous insurgency to the nine hells – _

Their shared bond tautened with the echo of his acute mental imprecation.

"Master…?"

"Obi-Wan. We need to keep moving. There was smoke to the north-east. It may be a nomadic settlement, and the plains-folk are not friendly to the Presidencyy. They might shelter us till nightfall – we can make for the ship under cover of darkness."

Or it might be a wildfire. Or the campsite of a sentinel squadron. In either case, nightfall was not soon enough. But the Force remained silent, watchful, revealing only that they were in considerable danger.

"A little further," the boy muttered, gasping as he struggled onto hands and knees.

"Yes." Qui-Gon hauled him upright, and they pushed onward unsteadily, making for the sinuous ribbon of hope coiling into the heat-scourged sky.

* * *

A little further proved to be nearly too far; they were within sight of the smoke's origin – a campsite set within a natural dell, a place where an itinerant space trader had set down his patched together ship between transcontinental stops - when Obi-Wan outright collapsed, his deadweight nearly dragging Qui-Gon down with him. Cities were far and few between here on Tu'Axl Prime – out here on the blasted heath one could barter and haggle in relative peace, free of the prurient questions of tariff officers or the Planetary Commerce Commission. It was fifty to one odds that the ship was chock full of black market items – Corellian whiskey, firearms, illicit pharmaceuticals, pirated cyberware components, fuel cells, anything and everything a person might want.

But that was all right. The Jedi master hoisted his not-so-small Padawan over his shoulders, ruefully aware that this would only jostle and exarcerbate his injuries – and strode the remaining distance to the campsite at a steady pace, the Force augmenting his own natural strength.

The squint-eyed merchant rushed forward to greet him, mistakenly assuming he was a customer – but when he got a good look at their robes and 'sabers, and the obviously compromised position of the young padawan, his oily manner transmuted into one more openly calculating.

"Spot o trouble in the city, eh?" he cagily inquired as the tall man knelt by the small fire, gently depositing his burden on the hard-packed earth beside the stone ring.

"You might say that."

The sun was sinking on the western horizon; the sky eastward was dusking to purple, the grass aflame with gold and red. The trader squatted down beside the Jedi master, peering critically over his shoulder as he tugged apart his apprentice's stained tunics and examined the bandaging around his torso.

"Ah, that looks bad. No medcenter on this side of the Quarrpa – you better fly him over to the other coast. Where's your ship, by the way?"

Qui-Gon released a hissing breath between his teeth. Infection had set in, despite his best efforts at healing. Their sustained flight had simply been too much – a non-Jedi would by now easily have been dead of toxic shock and exhaustion. "My ship is three klicks southeast of here. On the Pers'ai plateau."

The trader nodded his head sagely, chewing upon a length of blackroot. "They'll have found it. Won't be there any more, I'd wager." He chomped on the long stem a moment longer and then removed it, brandishing it like a wand. "You're a wanted man, I'll bet."

"Perhaps. We are on the wrong side of the law here. Like yourself."

The merchant chuckled darkly, but did rise to fetch some water for his unexpected guests. "Sorry I can't be of more help," he said, insincerely.

Qui-Gon understood the hint all too well. "We have credits – I would be happy to pay you for food and shelter. We need a place to rest before we continue on our journey."

Their new acquaintance was pleased to find him fluent in his native language, and even more pleased when the Jedi thrust a hand into a small belt pouch and withdrew the currency to prove his point. The man's sallow features lit up with avarice at the sight of so many dataries in one place. Indeed, had that place not been in such alarming proximity to a 'saber's gleaming hilt, it seemed likely he would have made a bold move to appropriate them.

Qui-Gon gave him a pittance, as allurement and bribe, and received a bowl of reconstituted bean-stew and a chunk of nondescript bread in return.

"Droids'll pass by here soon," the nomadic merchant informed him, scanning the horizons with a pair of macrobinoculars. "See 'em coming."

The Jedi master stood, sucking in a sharp breath.

"Here," the spacer barked. "Get inside." He pried open the seals of a large cargo crate sitting beneath his ship's battered hull alongside other containers of goods. "Smuggler's box – triple shielded. No scanner's good enough to get a read through that."

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Without argument, Qui-Gon stooped and seized Obi-Wan beneath the arms, dragging him backward into the cramped confines of the crate. Their disreputable new ally fixed the hatch in place, sealing them in a stuffy darkness. Outside, over the darkening heath, danger approached at a rapid clip.

"Master…"

"Hush." He shifted about uncomfortably, finding space for his long legs by pulling Obi-Wan up close against his chest. The padawan's head lolled backward against his collarbone.

"Master?….What's..?"

"Probes are sweeping over the plains. We'll wait until they've passed. This is a smuggling crate, resistant to most scanner equipment."

The word _smuggler_ seemed to penetrate the fog surrounding the young Jedi's mind. He released a harsh breath, one of mingled pain and disapproval. "That fellow is a _brigand."_

"He is also a useful ally. Where are your manners?"

A sorry flicker of mischief passed between them, faintly illumining the Force, but Obi-Wan did not have the strength to voice the ill-mannered reply.

Danger hovered closer outside. Qui-Gon stroked one hand along the boy's arm, soothing both of them.

Shuddering uncontrollably, the young Jedi curled sideways against his chest, burrowing into the folds of his cloak like a distraught youngling. "…uuungh."

Agony surged and erupted over the edges of his battered shields, flooding molten along their bond. The Jedi master tightened his grip, sending a wave of blunting oblivion back along the connection, a dulling cocoon woven of the Force's threads. Obi-Wan slumped further against him, slipping into a feverish half-dream.

The droids passed overhead, circling about the trader's ship for several minutes while the tall man held his breath and his padawan in one endless span of rigid expectancy . In time, the danger dwindled into the distance, and their scurrilous companion released them into the night's cool air.

* * *

Qui-Gon piled fuel on the fire and added his own cloak to the blankets bundled about his padawan.

"He's in bad shape. You need the medcenter over in Mershuu."

The tall man shook his head. "We need to leave this system."

"I leave in ten standard – got lotsa customers comin' in over the next week or so. Big orders, important deals. But after that, we can arrange a reasonable fare."

The Jedi master watched the blue-white dervishes dance and whirl in the fire's depths. "We do not have time to wait."

The smuggler shrugged. "Sorry. Hope your ship's still over on the Plateau."

But they both knew it would have been seized by the authorities, the narrow window of escape already closed, the stakes increasing with each wasted hour. Obi-Wan moaned and rolled over, muttering incoherently.

Qui-Gon crouched beside him, cupping one fever-flushed cheek in his hand. "Peace."

Glazed blue eyes struggled to stay focused on his face. "Tide's coming in."

"What?" The Jedi master slicked the boy's hair back in damp spikes, and pulled his cloak more tightly about his trembling frame. "There is no tide here, Padawan."

"I hear it, master." Obi-Wan gazed up at him, puzzled.

"That is the wind in the grass."

His apprentice's soft frown deepened. "How far to the ship now? Why aren't we going?"

"We must find another solution to our difficulty, I think. But for now, you need to _sleep."_

The Force borne command had the desired effect; Qui-Gon stayed a moment longer and tried to nudge the boy into a genuine healing trance – but his own limited skills, and Obi-Wan's subliminal awareness that they were still _on the run_ conspired to render his efforts vain. With a sigh he stood and returned to contemplating the fire.

"Well, " their unlikely host suggested. "A round of sabaac to pass the time?"

* * *

The night was long; a round turned into several, and then some more. The trader started with a half-bottle of Old Corellian, and the stakes started at a few credits apiece. By the time the fire had burned low, painting caressing Obi-Wan's sickly face with ghastly highlights, the bottle was empty and the stakes had risen exponentially.

The spacer tramped inside his hold and returned with another bottle. "We're not stopping now," he informed the Jedi master.

Qui-Gon merely studied his battered cards, held casually in one hand. "You feel a turn of luck coming your way?"

"I believe in Lady Luck," his companion assured him, taking a hearty swig and pouring a tumbler for the tall man.

"Thank you." It was set aside, barely touched.

They bluffed and drew and played double indemnity and then cutthroat until the second bottle had run dry along with the smuggler's luck. Qui-Gon raked in the enormous pile of winnings. "My friend, " he observed dispassionately, "this constitutes all your wares … how will you satisfy your customers when they come to buy?"

Cursing beneath his breath, the merchant threw his last hand down in disgust. "Cheater."

The Jedi held up both hands. "Lady Luck, like many of her fair sex, is a creature of whimsy and caprice. I did nothing."

A glob of black-root stained spittle hit the fire and went up in a hissing spout. "Damn treacherous little vetch. 'Bandoning me for some long-haired _pizzmah_."

"I would not deprive you of your livelihood," Qui-Gon assured him. "Here – let us settle the debt in a different manner. I need your ship… and you need your wares."

"The ship's worth more'n all this stuff together!" the man protested. "I'm finished without her! I got to get from place to place!"

"But not for ten days," the tall man continued reasonably. "I will accept the loan of your vessel as payment on this honor debt – and I will have it returned to you by courier within a fortnight. You should be able to conduct your usual business in my absence."

Sullenly, the game's loser considered the offer. "What if planetary security makes a raid out here, eh? I'll be stuck. And how do I know you'll keep your word, eh? Bet you Jedi got a good excuse for anything you feel like doin'. I got no collateral for this so-called loan."

Qui-Gon shrugged. "No. You do not."

The unfortunate trader spat again. "Fark it. All right, then."

* * *

It was difficult to rouse Obi-Wan; only a sharp and authoritative nudge of the Force against his drifting mind served to bring him back to half-consciousness.

"…little further?" he inquired, hoarsely, through chattering teeth.

"We're leaving now," Qui-Gon told him. The spacer's holds had been emptied; rows of crates and palettes surrounded the dwindling fire. "In this ship. Come along."

The padawan managed to sit up, with assistance. "Ship?"

"I won it from our friend there in a game of sabaac. We ought to leave before he sobers up."

It had perhaps been a mistake to inform the young Jedi of this detail. He clutched the blankets and cloaks tight about his shoulders, posture stiffening with outrage "Gambling? No, Master. We're not going."

Vexed, Qui-Gon raised his brows. "We are going because I _say_ we are going. And you, my young friend, are in no shape to harbor objections."

Obi-Wan's blood-shot eyes flashed with indignation. "We can't _cheat_ our way off planet, Master! It's not right! It's against the Code! And I am not-"

"You are not saying another word about it," the tall man interrupted, hauling the boy upright.

This elicited a small gasp, effectively quelling all argument. "_Master!"_

"You can submit an official complaint to the Council upon our return. But for the moment, you are cooperating." Qui-Gon all but dragged his fulminating companion up the ramp.

"….dishonorable!" Obi-Wan sulked as they attained the forward cockpit.

The Jedi master pushed his apprentice into the co-pilot's seat and frowned over the unfamiliar console, bringing all systems online. The fuel supply was limited, but should be enough to get them to the nearest Republic emergency outpost. "I am sorry to deprive you of an _honorable_ demise, Padawan," he grunted. "In time, you will recover from the trauma and possibly even attain some common sense."

They lifted off the blackened heath on repulsors, and skimmed away a safe distance from the trader's dell before engaging thrusters and rising into atmosphere.

Obi-Wan slouched forward over the navcomp display, resting his head upon his folded arms with a small groan. "…Yes, Master."

Qui-Gon reached sideways to lightly touch one feverish cheek. "Just a little further," he said.


	4. Chapter 4

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**A Closer Look**

"Look! These are _shevook, _Obi! You can see clear across the precinct."

Garen Muln made another minute adjustment to the macrobinoculars' focus, homing in on a point far beyond the dim and smoggy boundaries of the sprawling Temple district.

Beside him, leaning over the balcony railing just far enough to make Bant Eerin nervous, Obi-Wan Kenobi scoffed at his companion's enthusiasm. "Master Muln, renowned for his lack of _focus_ during instructional sessions, turns to a prosthesis for help."

"You barve." The subject of this jest took a swipe at his companion, who neatly evaded the blow.

"Stop it!" their Mon Calamari fiend peeped, wide webbed hands splayed upon her hips. "You'll both go over the edge!"

Garen clapped her on the shoulder. "No fear, Bantling – Oafy here isn't _that_ clumsy."

"Yes," his comrade assured her. "If Garen is to be defenestrated, it won't be an accident. I promise."

"I'll take my macro'nocs back now," the silver eyed girl snapped, holding out a hand to receive her property.

"They are wasted upon you, Bant," Garen lamented. "I mean, what does an apprentice healer need with 'em? To look at people's insides?"

Obi-Wan grinned wickedly. "With sufficient magnification she might even be able to find certain distinguishing features of your outsides, Garen."

"Would you two _stop?"_ Bant shouldered her way to the front, and peered over the railing in her own turn, scoping out the pedestrian plaza before the Temple's Grand ceremonial stairwell – the lower level entrance never used except on rare ritual occasions. "What's that?"

"We can't _see_," they reminded her, in unison.

"Oh. Well, there's this little hovercart – I think it's a food vendor. But there aren't supposed to be any solicitors or loiterers on the arcade walkway – I'm sure Coruscanti security will shoo him away eventually. The funny thing is .. he looks like he's waiting there for somebody."

The boys leaned over the parapet, straining to see with the naked eye.

"Please!" Bant shrieked. "I am _not_ scraping what's left of you off the pavement and dumping it in a bacta tank!"

This earned her a doubly horrified look.

"I have to go anyway. Don't you two have things to do?"

Garen checked the chrono on his comlink. "I've got forty minutes before Master Rhee wants me back in quarters. Let's find an open salle, Obi."

"Perfect. Far be it from us to keep Bant from spying upon the neighbors."

The Mon Cal rolled her enormous globular eyes and stuffed the macro'nocs back in their soft case. "I'll see you two buffoons in the healers' ward later, after you thrash some sense into each other."

* * *

The two young ruffians did show up in the Halls of Healing later, though both appeared miraculously un-thrashed.

"What are you doing here?" Bant demanded.

"Are you off shift soon?" Garen Muln inquired. "We're going to go stargazing on the Temple roof."

The Mon Cal snorted. "You can't see any stars on Coruscant, bantha-brain."

Her interlocutor exchanged a meaningful look with his companion. "Told you she would cast aspersion upon the idea," he said. "But, dear Bantling, Obi-Wan has solved that problem."

"Your 'noculars have a variable light condenser- we can reverse filter the ambient illumination and actually see constellations. I mean, if it's a clear night."

"Which it always is," Garen added. "Thank you, Weather Regulatory Panel."

Bant's protruding eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Where are your masters?"

"At Master Skirro's three-day lecture series on Indigenous Fertility Rites of the Gamorrean Tribal Cultures. Not my speciality," Garen shrugged. "More up Obi-Wan's alley, but Master Jinn said it would burn out his virgin ears and didn't we have class assignments to complete?"

"_Don't_ you?" the apprentice healer pressed, undaunted.

"That's what Reeft is for," Garen blithely replied.

Shoulder to shoulder, emanating serene self-confidence, the boys were difficult to resist. Bant Eerin succumbed to their combined charm easily. "I'll… I'll ask Master Li's permission," she muttered, scuttling away to consult her own mentor.

Ben To Li appeared a few minutes later with his apprentice in tow. "You cannot see stars on Coruscant, " he informed his young visitors, without preamble. "Even with a variable light condensation filter. There is simply too much short-wave interference from comm signals and traffic control – your 'nocs will overload and blur the fields."

"Oh," Garen said.

Obi-Wan's mouth twisted in disappointment.

"However," the senior healer went on, " A bit of fresh air never did a young padawan any harm. I have given Bant permission to accompany you for _two_ hours. You will bring her back in one piece," he added, imperiously, bushy silver brows jutting upwards. "Am I understood?"

"Yes, Master Li."

"Thank you, Master Li… your kindness shines clear as the starry skies."

"Watch yourself, Kenobi, or I'll have you detained here for inflammation of the wit – and I assure you, it requires _very aggressive_ treatment."

The young Jedi chose to cut their losses and beat a hasty retreat.

* * *

Ben To Li proved to be correct: no matter how they tweaked or configured the macro-nocs, not a star was to be seen. But they determined to make the best possible use of this rare recreational occasion, sprawling upon their backs atop the flat Temple roof, the five spires towering majestically above them, the warm night air brushing against their faces and ruffling their clothing. The hum of distant traffic was a soothing current; the blinking lights of the occasional air-car or larger transport returning to the Temple hangar bays a familiar winking presence.

"Well?" Garen demanded. "Which is it, Bant?"

The Mon Cal sighed theatrically. "Truth."

"Give her a corker, Obi."

The latter person propped himself up on one elbow, mulling the problem philosophically. "Very well. Bant: have you ever been disciplined by Master Li?"

"Brilliant!" Garen barked.

"Shut up, Garen, I want to hear the answer."

Poor Bant cringed. "That's not fair, Obi!"

"That is the game, Bant; you may of course forfeit the contest."

"I'm not _forfeiting_ to you two chosskis!" the Mon Cal girl retorted hotly. "The answer is yes." The force melted with her embarrassment.

"For what?" Garen chuckled. "This ought to be good."

Bant crossed her arms. "Ha. He only asked whether, not what. And you only get one question."

Obi-Wan silenced his friend's spluttering. "She's right, Garen. It's in the rules."

"You did that on purpose, Kenobi. You bleeding-heart liberal."

"It's your turn, Garen."

"No, it's not – it's _yours."_

Obi-Wan smiled bashfully in the darkness. "Oh… yes. My turn."

Garen Muln folded his arms behind his head, contemplating the opaque heavens. "Truth or dare, Oafy?"

"Truth."

"Hmmmm…. Oh! I know." A dramatic pause. "What in stars' name is going on between you and the sarlaac bush in the outdoor gardens?"

"I'm not answering that," Obi-Wan promptly snarled.

"You _have_ to, choobazzi-breath!" his companion snickered.

"He can take a dare instead," Bant pointed out.

"Fine. Dare."

"You make it up, Bant. Something to do with the med-ward." Garen's grin of delectation sparkled impishly in the Force.

"I have a better idea," the Mon Cal girl declared. "Obi: I dare you to sneak down to the pedestrian plaza tomorrow and buy something from that food vendor's cart."

"That's forbidden!" Obi-Wan protested.

Garen threw up his hands in disgust. "Hence the term _dare, _ as opposed to _formal Council request."_

"You can always forfeit the contest," Bant pertly reminded him.

"_Blast it!"_ Obi-Wan seethed for a long moment. "I'm not forfeiting. I'll do it."

* * *

The dare turned out to be a welcome opportunity to escape the refectory at noon-meal the next day. By some dark serendipity of incompetence and adolescent mischief, the appointed hour of rule violation coincided with the fifth day in a row on which fava beans were served for luncheon. Obi-Wan was almost relieved to be seeking other means of finding sustenance, and certainly felt pity for his uncomplaining but dour-faced colleagues, who had to endure the results of a moronic kitchen droid's supply requisitioning error.

The lower halls were empty, and he found himself upon the broad pedestrian plaza at high meridian, the Temple's vast walls casting only a shallow shadow, the sun blazing behind the south spire like a halo. He squinted in the white glare of marble and white granite, and set off down the stairs to the lower arcade.

And there, incongruous and yet alluring, was the grotty food vendor's hovercart, smelling of oil and hot meat, and plastered with flaking advertisements for the local hot-sauce sensation, Half-Parsec Picante. The owner perked up in surprise when the young Jedi cautiously approached, casting an uneasy glance over either shoulder to be sure the Coruscanti metropolian police were nowhere to be seen.

"I'm not here to enforce the mercantile code," Obi-Wan assured the small fellow. _Or the health code, _ he mentally amended, trying not to cringe visibly.

The vendor's eyes widened. "You also would like some…?"

"Yes. Yes, I would." He hoped none of the masters were presently studying this location thorugh a pair of macrobinoculars. The observation balcony on the fifteenth level east concourse provided a marvelous view of this corner…

The grubby merchant took his credit and slopped some marinated stew into a flatbread shell, topping it with chopped herbs and citron, and a dash of pungent hot sauce. "Enjoy."

Obi-Wan accepted his illicit lunch, spine tingling with premonition. Somebody was coming – somebody _powerful_ in the Force. Certain that he was about to be apprehended in flagrante. He ducked into the shadow of the Grand Stairwell, just behind the statue of Tiros the Compassionate.

A familiar figure stumped down the steps above him, approaching the hovercart at a shuffling, grunting pace.

"Ah! Magister Yoda! The usual?"

"Hmmm. Extra picante today, no cheese." The diminutive Grand Master chuffed out his order and leaned upon his stick while the vendor deftly constructed his noontime repast.

"Your patronage honors me."

Master Yoda nodded his head, frizzled white hair wavering alongside his pointed ears. "Deeply appreciated, your skills are."

And the hovercart was pushed away, its daily errand complete. Obi-Wan's mouth hung agape. He remained frozen in place, mental shields drawn up to an aching extremity until the echo of Yoda's gimer stick had faded from the stately colonnades.

He exhaled shakily, then vaulted over the retaining wall and up the stairs, three at a time – only to nearly collide with Qui-Gon Jinn.

* * *

"….And you agreed to the inane terms of this contest?" the tall Jedi master asked.

His protégé hung his head miserably. "Yes, Master."

"Hm."

"It won't happen again, Master."

"Really?" Qui-Gon tilted his head curiously, leading the way back into the shadow of the Temple's mighty foundation. "How do I know you won't develop an immoderate passion for this local delicacy, just as Master Yoda has?"

"I won't, Master. I promise."

"We shall see. In the meantime, what do you suppose would constitute a suitable penalty for breaking the rules of conduct for junior Padawans?"

Obi-Wan hated it when his teacher threw this particular question at him; he hedged about the issue for a few moments. "It _was_ in the spirit of fun," he pointed out.

"True." The lecture on Gammorean native customs must have been intriguing and well-documented; Qui-Gon appeared to be in a forgiving mood. "So let us deal with your malfeasance in the same spirit. I suggest a penalty round."

_Not good. _The young Jedi winced inwardly.

"Truth or dare, Obi-Wan?"

"Um….Truth?" They passed into the Hall of Concord, and ascended another wide staircase.

"Truth. A wise choice. Tell me: just which one of your friends was the mastermind behind this piece of folly?"

The padawan bit his lower lip as they entered the nearest lift. He could not possibly betray Bant. "I – Master…."

"You are free to forfeit the contest, of course."

Obi-Wan squirmed. "Fine. Dare."

They crossed the main concourse and strode down the residential level hallway. Qui-Gon smiled smugly to himself. "Very well. " He waved open the door to their shared quarters. "I _dare_ you, oh bold and feckless padawan mine, to _eat_ what you bought."

His apprentice realized, with a mild spurt of surprise, that the lukewarm flatbread concoction was still grasped in his left hand. "Oh." He followed the tall man into their spartan apartment.

"Go on." Qui-Gon waited, arms crossed.

Closer inspection revealed the main ingredient of the seasoned mash to be…. "Insects."

"Master Yoda has a very broad palate."

Obi-Wan grimaced, offering the Jedi master a plaintive look. "I've learned my lesson," he pleaded.

"Good. And now you will eat it, too. Unless you would prefer to bring up the matter before the Council – with _all_ the parties involved."

For a moment, the padawan's gag reflex conflicted with his loyalties – but principle won out over instinctive revulsion. Summoning he Force to his aid, he choked down the revolting mess, glad that the picante sauce masked some of the flavor… though very little of the peculiar _texture_ of his forbidden meal.

"Well? What do you think of your first taste of rebellion?"

"I think my stomach is going to rebel," Obi-Wan darkly muttered.

"It is sometimes wise, Padawan, not to look too closely."

"Yes, Master."

A few breaths of silence, in which the Jedi master chuckled softly to himself, and his apprentice fought down an urge to vomit all over his teacher's insufferable boots. Then -

"Master? What were _you _doing down there on the plaza at noon-hour?"

Qui-Gon Jin raised a brow. "Do you really want to know?"

Wisdom, they said, could sometimes be found in the gutters… or in a cheap food vendor's hovercart. "No, Master. I've decided not to look too closely."

"You are learning, Obi-Wan."


	5. Chapter 5

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**By Your Side**

Obi-Wan Kenobi sank a bit further into the molded plastoid chair, twining his fingers together beneath his wide cloak sleeves and fretting – very gently – at the inside of his lower lip. The tang of bacta had long since ceased to tickle and annoy his nostrils – it has seeped instead into his very being, tingeing his other senses with its portentous miasma. The floor _looked_ as though bacta had been smeared and hardened there; the dim light of the ward seemed tinted with the red color of the miraculous solution; every blip and click of the monitors and the solicitously hovering droid were the drip of gelatinous goop along a glass tank's walls. He was sure his own mouth tasted of bacta, too, though he'd never swallowed any and could only guess at its vile flavor from its slightly acidic scent.

He twisted his fingers harder and then _squeezed _until the middle knuckles cracked.

_Do not center on your anxieties,_ a familiar voice sounded in his mind. But those syllables rang hollow now, blurring into the muffling ocean of bacta, of the dreadful fact represented by that tank – there – beside him – which he could not bear to gaze upon, for fear of seeing what was contained therein.

A gentle presence settled beside him. In his peripheral vision, he could glimpse pale healer's tunics and a neatly folded thermal blanket. Senior Healer Ben To Li's heavily veined hand reached sideways and lit upon his knee. "It's three in the morning, Padawan. I'm going to present you with an ultimatum."

He didn't look up. One hand peeped from beneath his oversized sleeve and rose to tug at his very short learner's braid, twisting the small plait of chestnut hair until it hurt. "I'm not leaving," he declared. _My place is by your side._

"If you aren't leaving, then you are staying on my terms," the healer retorted, though not unkindly. "You may remain here, _if_ you go lie down. I've a cot ready just down the hall."

_Down the hall?_ "I'm not leaving," Obi-Wan reasserted. This much had to be clear: to Ben To, to himself, to the Force itself. He would not abandon post. Not while his master was –

"Of course you aren't leaving. You're just going to sleep over _here_ rather than in that chair."

Somehow he found himself on his feet, following Ben To's hushed footfalls in a daze. Part of him registered that the healer's last soothing statement might have been laced with a generous degree of Force-persuasion. "I'm not going to sleep," he explained, to the universe in general. "I'm just lying down." Probably he should start doing that before he _fell_ down, which seemed likelier with each moment he remained standing.

"Yes, yes," Ben To murmured, somehow managing to deftly extricate the young Jedi from his cloak, coax him onto the sterile medical couch, and tuck the thermal blanket about his aching limbs. "Of course you won't sleep." A warm hand rested on the padawan's forehead. "Not at all."

Obi-Wan's eyes drooped shut.

* * *

He started awake a mere hour later, disoriented and on the verge of panic. What was he doing here, alone, in the dark, while his _master_ languished without him? He knew his duty; he knew his place. Instantly he was darting through the open door and down the quiet hallway, back to the chamber where the droids and the monitors beeped, and the horrible tank of gelatinous red ooze loomed like a ghastly monolith, a horrible entombing pillar of glass, an unyielding transparent wall he could not penetrate with any extremity of devotion.

His own hands seemed pale as skeleton bones when he splayed them out against the warm plastisteel. The Force trickled through him sluggishly, paralyzed by his gnawing fear. And that place deep in his psyche where Qui-Gon Jinn's voice ought to be, serene and rooted in boundless wisdom, was empty, an aching bruise where there should be a quiet and steady presence.

"Master." He laid his forehead against the dividing wall, peering through the murk as best he could. It was difficult to see through the nearly opaque gel, but he thought he could make out the outline of a familiar form.

Except it was all wrong. Divested of his robe and tunics, Qui-Gon's pale limbs floated limply in the healing solution, drifting listlessly on some subtle current inside the tank. The Jedi master's hair rose around him in a wavering halo like dark seaweed, a ghostly crown about his face and shoulders, seeming to possess a life of its own, softly caressing the boldly carved features that were now slack and unresponsive - and half-smothered by a breathing mask. His eyes were closed, his spirit adrift. It might as well have been a corpse.

Obi-Wan shivered. It could very well have been a corpse, and this a funeral pyre. He pressed his hands harder against the barrier, but nothing happened. And eventually the condensation from his own shallow breaths fogged over the glass and obscured the image. He slid down the tank's side and huddled against it where the supporting base met the floor. He'd not brought the thermal blanket, nor his cloak, and the room was cool. He wrapped his arms about his shins and let his forehead rest upon his knees. _My place is by your side._

* * *

He was awakened by the shrill bleeping of an alarm, and nearly upset the medical droid in his haste to scramble upright and see what was the matter.

"Oh dear, youngling – move along!" the thing snipped at him in its warbling artificial voice, prodding at him with one articulated metal hand.

He ducked and slid beneath the hovercart with all the nameless medical _things _ on it and scooted quietly to the far side of the tank, where they were doing _something - _ his heart was pounding fit to burst was Master Qui-Gon all right was he in trouble was it all going wrong was he –

"Padawan!"

He all but yelped when two strong hands settled upon his shoulders.

Master Tahl had pulled him into an embrace before he could object. He cooperated because she was a Master and he knew his place. And her voice was tart as she told the med-droid exactly where to go, employing a few choice idioms he had not yet learned. He memorized them for later use and let her shepherd him into the adjacent room, although the bleeping and commotion carried on unabated in the bacta chamber.

Master Li strode by, looking harried, barking orders at two scurrying apprentice healers, all padding feet and rustling clothing and –

-Tahl pulled him back down beside her. "Hush," she commanded. "You can do nothing but get underfoot. Stay here."

"Yes, Master." he twisted his hands together in his lap, _hating_ that last injunction and wanting to go _see,_ and trying to make his teeth stop chattering. "My master," he began, and then stopped because his voice was quavering like a youngling and he did not wish her to think ill of him.

Tahl Uvain closed her golden eyes for a moment and …disappeared. Into the Force. Obi-Wan tried to follow, shutting out the blare of the healer's ward and the sounds of the machines and the urgent murmurs of master Li and his apprentices, but he floundered and sank beneath the unsteady currents, coming back up choking on the seething waves of his own anxiety.

"He's all right," Master Uvain said, after a while. "I can feel him." her hand tugged at his sleeve and pulled his into her grip. Her narrow, strong fingers closed about his, not allowing escape. When he looked up at her in alarm, she merely smiled, radiance kindling in her gaze. "Qui is very strong in the Force. He'll be back with us soon."

Obi-Wan nodded, needing to believe it, but unable to banish the image of his master's phantasmal white figure suspended in the crimson lake.

"Come with me," Tahl commanded, her grasp about his fingers tightening.

He resisted. "My place is – "

"-by his side." She leaned closer, until their foreheads almost touched. "I'll show you how to be there. Come meditate with me. But not here. This is too… distracting… for you."

* * *

He followed Master Tahl in a daze, the Temple's sweeping architecture and subtly toned mosaics a dull blur of color and motion, shadow and early morning light. They walked and walked, and he found himself talking.

."…and then Master said to evacuate the starboard cabins. It took a while to get everyone out, and by the time we had everyone in the forward hold, the emergency klaxons were indicating _imminent fusion reaction_ in the starboard drive core." He swallowed. "The captain sealed the blast hatches, but there were two elderly passengers still coming down the hall." He paused, the memory more vibrant than the present moment.

"Go on," Tahl gently urged him, opening the door to a small room fragrant with freshly burned incense, and suffused by a pale beam of gold from an angled skylight shaft.

"Master Qui-Gon held the blast doors open with the Force. I ran to get the people out – I had to get them one at a time, and carry them on my back... I'm not as big as he is…"

"You would not have been able to hold the doors," Tahl pointed out. "The tasks were well apportioned."

He swallowed. "And I was slow… we got them through the doors but the explosion happened at the same time. Master _threw_ me down the hall ahead of him. That's all I remember until the emergency team arrived. Master Li said I had a concussion," he finished, in disgust. What sort of an apprentice was sidelined by a head injury while his master had been nearly blasted to oblivion? He should have been by Qui-Gon's side, as was proper. Perhaps _together_ they might have been able to hold the blast panel entirely sealed. Neither of them would have been injured then, and Qui-Gon would not be in the bacta tank, stripped and violated and surrounded by lifeless droids and machines.

The frustration threatened to leak past his guard, in burning droplets. "Why did he throw me _away _ from him?" he asked, sinking helplessly onto one of the deep blue meditation cushions.

Tahl's brows arched upward. "He pushed you away from possible death, not himself," she corrected him. "You aren't thinking clearly. And when I touched him in the Force, I could feel his concern – he is anxious about you; he does not know what befell you after the explosion. I think it would greatly help his healing if he could feel your presence."

Obi-Wan nodded. "You can show me?"

"Yes." She closed her eyes. "He did not want you by his side then; but he needs you by his side now. Follow my lead, and I will show you how to be there in the Force."

* * *

Tahl woke him again at noon.

At first he did not recognize his surroundings. The firm cushions beneath his back were not the same as his sleep palette; the curve of the ceiling overhead was different, too. But the Force chimed gently, invisible tones cascading on a warm wind. He blinked, groggily recalling that he had trudged up here behind Tahl after their shared meditation at dawn.

"Good morning," the golden-skinned master addressed him. "The healers have very positive news."

He was instantly alert. "Can we go see him?"

She raked a critical eye over his rumpled tunics and sleep-begummed eyes.. "Hm. You'd better impose order… or he'll think your head injury was severe." She nodded her head in the direction of her private 'fresher. "Go do your best; that is all a Jedi can be expected to give."

When he presented himself a few minutes later, the smile lurking about the corners of Tahl's mouth betrayed her opinion that his attempt to impose martial law upon his hair with a liberal application of water and a stern combing had not been successful – but mercifully she did not demand more than his best effort. They left at once.

"Did you sleep, Master?"

"No. I'm foolish that way. But I did eat, which you have not- so we are even."

There was no countering Master Uvain's logic. Obi-Wan held his peace, stomach fluttering queasily as they entered the healer's domain again.

It was all he could do not to throw himself bodily upon Qui-Gon, who lay still and swathed in many blankets, his hair combed out and loose upon the pillow, his presence uncharacteristically muted but still – wonderfully –_him._ The padawan settled for bounding to the cot's side and tentatively touching the tall Jedi's shoulder, spreading his fingers out over the cool skin. "Master?"

One of Qui-Gon's hands moved, slowly, and covered his apprentice's much smaller one. "Obi-Wan." A smile ghosted over his face, flickered behind his deep blue eyes. "I felt you this morning."

"Master Tahl helped me." He leaned in closer, needing to feel the man's beating heart, the rise and fall of his chest. Yes, there they were. The image of the white corpse floating in its crimson bath faded, and was released into the Force with his fear. Obi-Wan exhaled, in unison with Qui-Gon. A large hand gently patted his back.

"Easy- Padawan," the Jedi master grunted, with a small pained smile.

The young Jedi released him, blushing. "I'm sorry, Master."

"You look awful. Ben To said you sustained a concussion."

Obi-Wan risked a mischievous smirk. "You overdid it, Master."

This earned him a very weak chuckle. "Brat. Have you rested at all, or only made a nuisance of yourself here?."

"I did – I stayed with Master Uvain last night, I mean this morning. I don't… I don't want to go back to quarters without you." He looked down, twisting fingers in the hem of the white blanket, willing Qui-Gon to understand that this did _not _ spring from childish petulance.

"I want you to go back to our quarters this evening and sleep there." Even badly injured, the Jedi master never missed a beat.

"But – "

"Obi-Wan. I will be there with you, remember?"

A lesson once learned had to be retained. The padawan sighed. "Yes, Master."

The tall man patted the cot beside him. "In the meantime, however, if you would consent to stay here and stand sentinel… I should like the medical droid scrapped if it attempts to touch my august person again."

With a joyful grin, his young apprentice wriggled onto the palette, relishing the restoration of proper order, and determined to disassemble any automated intruders with his bare hands, if need be. One of Qui-Gon' hands settled lightly upon his chest, and he felt the large Jedi drift back into the Force's soothing currents, half-asleep and half in a healing trance.

Master Tahl smiled, and winked, and withdrew in a graceful sweep of brown cloth.

And Obi-Wan stayed for a long while, content despite the lack of lively conversation, or foes upon whom to enact his protective fury – and happily secure in his proper place …by his master's side.


	6. Chapter 6

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**For the Record**

"Master?"

Qui-Gon Jinn laid down his utensil and gave his padawan his full attention.

The boy looked down at his untouched soup and then up at his mentor, mouth twisting. "There is something I wish to tell you... rather than waiting for you to hear it from Master Chopra."

The tall man raised his brows. "Concerning your astronavigational theory class?"

"Yes, Master."

The Temple refectory was unusually bustling this evening; a clan of older initiates had been permitted to dine with their elders, bringing with them a certain youthful ebullience.

"Well? Do you plan on making this dreadful revelation here, or must we seek out a more private venue?"

Obi-Wan shifted, eyes never leaving Qui-Gon's face.

"Out with it, Padawan."

"I failed the final examination." The young Jedi's cheeks attained a deep crimson flush.

Qui-Gon drained his tea cup. "I am not surprised, considering the J'Xoaci mission occupied much of the last month, and you missed out on critical instruction during that time. Abstract mathematics is not your strong suit, Padawan."

His apprentice's tense posture slackened a trifle, and he raised a hand to rub at the base of his neck. "Yes, Master. Um..."

The tall man tapped one finger against the tabletop, a miniscule signal of impatience.

Obi-Wan did not miss the subtle hint. "Master Chopra said that I would have to repeat the course, naturally." He paused, gauging Qui-Gon's reaction. "It will put me behind in the cycle, but I've finished the Diplomacy and History segments early, Master, so it won't impact my studies overall."

"I agree," Qui-Gon responded neutrally.

The Padawan hurried onward. "Master Chopra said that in light of the extenuating circumstances, he would strike this course from the records, rather than enter a failing mark." An eager upward glance. "With your approval, Master."

"Ah." The Jedi master indicated his student's untouched meal. "You need to eat. I will take this appeal under consideration."

Unsatisfied, and bemused by the Qui-Gon's apparent hesitance, Obi-Wan dutifully returned to his soup bowl, crumbling the thick seed-wafers into it with an intensity befitting an initiate building his first lightsaber.

The elder Jedi leaned back in his chair and mused upon the simple request and its implications for a long moment. It certainly merited further consideration.

* * *

The next morning, since they were not actively assigned to a mission , Obi-Wan set off early for the upper level lecture halls and classrooms.

"You are starting a new rotation," Qui-Gon observed, walking with him as far as the lift. "Which courses convene this morning?"

"Piloting," his young companion answered with a wry grimace. "And then maintenance practicum." A droll lift of the brows. "Note that _repairs_ are scheduled _after_ student piloting lessons."

"There is much wisdom in that," Qui-Gon agreed, amicably.

"And then noon meal and _Astronvaigational Theory, Intermediate Level… _from the beginning," Obi-Wan added.

"My heart goes out to Master Chopra."

"I left the afternoon free…. For saber drills," Obi-Wan hinted.

The tall man quirked a tiny smile. "We shall be patient and see what the afternoon brings."

His apprentice entered the lift, and made him a short bow as the doors closed.

Qui-Gon went to see the Temple's resident mathematician.

* * *

Master Paneek Chopra was unusually disorderly for a Jedi. "Where did I put those tea leaves?" he grumbled, rummaging about in the cluttered drawers of his desk. Various calculating instruments and primitive geometrical devices were pulled out and scattered upon the desk, amid crumpled flimsi and a small holocron or two. "Hmmm."

Qui-Gon settled in the tiny office's only extra chair, a creaking and architecturally dubious piece of work. It groaned ominously beneath his weight.

"I came to ask about my padawan's progress in mathematics," the tall man said, as his colleague finally located the battered tin of tea leaves and crumbled them into the waiting ceramplast pot.

"Kenobi? Oh dear," the aged Graan murmured. "But we'll see him through. Where there's a will there's a way. And he _could_ still make a fine diplomat. Most sentient beings have no appreciation for sublime Order, anyway."

"My concern was more particular," Qui-Gon assured him. "He tells me he failed the final examination for the intermediate course."

The mathematician's three eye stalks wavered. "Ah, yes. That's right. Not to worry – the boy is not to be blamed; he missed six weeks of instructional periods while on assignment. I will strike the course from his record and re-enroll him in the next cycle. He was quite agreeable about repeating the class, by the way – I must compliment you on his willing attitude. He is eager to succeed, despite all obstacles."

Qui Gon accepted a steaming cup. "Thank you. The eagerness is a native trait; I can claim no credit."

"And he has an impressive academic record, I must say. Flawless, in point of fact – up to this point."

The tall man took a contemplative sip of the hot brew. Ah. Yes. "Will you do me a kindness? Leave the last course on the database. There is no need to erase the failing mark."

"Ah? Well, if that's what you want, Master Jinn."

He bowed his head to the elderly Graan. "Yes. I'm afraid I need to exercise my prerogatives in this matter."

Paneek Chopra returned the polite mark of respect. "As you wish. Raising a padawan is quite outside my realm of expertise, I fear. May the Force be with you."

* * *

"No saber drills today," Qui-Gon told the boy.

The Force twisted in disappointment. "Yes, Master," Obi-Wan meekly replied.

They reached the main concourse. "I've reserved a salle for sparring instead."

Light seemed to cartwheel and cavort along the hushed passageway. "Yes, Master," Obi-Wan meekly replied.

"With Master Bondara as an objective observer."

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan meekly replied.

Qui-Gon snorted. "I am going to dance the Corellian jig naked in the Council chamber," he blandly announced.

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan meekly replied.

They strode placidly down the hall a few more paces before the padawan's mouth tightened at the corners, revealing faint dimples.

Qui-Gon inhaled deeply though his nose, forcibly suppressing his own amusement.

But they managed to keep their composure intact all the way to the upper level dojo entrance, where the formidable Anoon Bondara awaited their arrival.

The swordsmaster's dark eyes narrowed appraisingly. "Is something funny?" he inquired.

Master and Padawan burst simultaneously into unrestrained laughter, setting the high ceiling ringing and attracting the curious stares of one or two passers-by.

"Eighty push-ups for inappropriate levity." Qui-Gon sternly directed his apprentice through the broad arched doors, gesturing with one hand. The sidelong sarcastic glint in his padawan's eye as the boy obeyed this directive told the tall man he would pay for his own frivolity later.

"Shall we?" Master Bondara suggested, altogether stymied by the exchange.

When Obi-Wan had grunted his way through the punishment for unbecoming conduct in the Temple's solemn halls, they faced off with training sabers.

"Now," Qui-Gon instructed his student. "We shall practice the advanced Ataru offensive forms I showed you last month. And Master Bondara will score your performance based on skill, speed, accuracy, and overall efficacy of the attack."

His apprentice's eyes widened at this declaration; they had only skimmed over the techniques in question, and had not had opportunity to practice at all. "Yes, Master," he meekly replied, hands tightening infinitesimally about his saber's hilt.

"Begin," their appointed referee called out.

* * *

Qui-Gon Jinn watched intently as Anoon Bondara reviewed the sparring match with his apprentice. The swordsmaster – never one to honey the truth – had assigned the boy an overall score of 6 out of 10, with some areas marked lower and one or two verging on 7.5. It was not an impressive report , and it was liberally ornamented with blunt critical observations and direct observations about flaws and aspects requiring serious improvement.

Obi-Wan listened to the dissection of his performance just as soberly as Qui-Gon watched him; but he did not frown except to signify concentration or a need for further clarification, and the Force remained steady, a current of serene acceptance and desire to _do better._

It was not arrogance, then, the Jedi master decided. Not that he had really suspected this of his padawan – but bitter past experience had taught him to _make sure._

"You did not have much chance to practice those forms," he said, as they wandered to the shower rooms. "You will improve greatly over time."

"Yes, Master. I am confident I will – and Master Bondara's remarks were very helpful."

Qui-Gon nodded, and dismissed him. The problem lay elsewhere.

* * *

He detained the boy after evening meditation.

"A word with you, Padawan."

"Of course, Master."

They sat opposite one another on the broad cushions, postures and expressions mirrored, shoulders draped in identical brown cloaks.

"How did your mathematics lesson go today?"

It was an unexpected question. Obi-Wan's brows rose. "Very well. And Reeft helped me a bit in the Archives afterward. I should do much better this time around." He hesitated, and then went on. "Did you speak to Master Chopra about the records?"

"I did."

"Thank you, " the padawan said. "I won't disappoint you, Master."

Ah. Yes. "You haven't ever," Qui-Gon said. "Especially not pertaining to mathematics."

Obi-Wan nodded.

"However, I saw no need to alter the database records."

This was an unexpected blow. The young Jedi blinked back his manifest disappointment. His gaze dropped to his hands, and his brows came together in a soft furrow.

Qui-Gon tilted his own head back. "You are disturbed by this, Obi-Wan?"

"No, Master!"

"_Padawan."_

A pair of blue eyes blazed with swiftly-smothered resentment. "…Yes, Master."

"Better. Now tell me why this decision rankles."

Obi-Wan sucked in a breath, eyes sliding sideways to the shadow-striped wall. His mouth hardened. "It's not fair," he said, at last, managing to keep his voice level. "With all due respect. I did not fail through any fault of my own. I was on mission during the second half of the course; I did my best in the exam, but I didn't have the knowledge or opportunity to master the subject matter. Even Master Chopra agreed that the score shouldn't.. shouldn't _count."_

Qui-Gon exhaled slowly, turning this over in his mind. "Count for what?" he inquired, innocently.

His appentice looked at him quizzically. "For the record, Master."

He tall man's eyes narrowed. "Your _perfect_ record, you mean? Pride is not something I will tolerate, Padawan."

The rising color in his student's cheeks and the soft ache of wounded feelings in the Force told him that he had struck a deep nerve, but perhaps not the correct one.

He took mercy on the young creature opposite him. "You are excused. We will discuss it further in the morning."

Obi-Wan all but fled the room, leaving the tall Jedi master in a confused silence.

* * *

Dawn came early; Coruscant had almost reached its solstice, the northern hemisphere tilted coyly toward the white star, anticipating its bright diurnal ascent with trembling breath.

Unlike the young padawan roused before first light by a gentle shake.

"Uuungh….Master?"

"We will watch the sun rise. Come."

A few minutes later, they ascended the stairs leading to the north spire's summit, Qui-Gon trailed by a bleary shadow. The lift would have been easier, but the steady upward winding of the spiral was a meditation unto itself. By the time they reached the circular chamber at the apex, the first blinding spears of summer light had pierced the curved horizon. Qui-Gon stood behind his padawan, facing the pale star together.

"I spoke harshly to you yesterday," he said softly, grasping the boy's shoulders. "I wish to withdraw the accusation of pride."

There was a subtle softening of the Force about them, a palpable relief. Obi-Wan leaned back against him, inhaling deeply. They watched the celestial disc bulge and rise upon the city's ragged edge, blazing in the morning sky.

"I don't want it on my record," the young Jedi explained. "That is all."

"I understand. But can you tell me why?"

The shoulders beneath his hands rose and fell, mutely.

"I thought not. What does a _failing mark_ on your record mean to you? That you do not understand the subject matter?"

"No, Master. I mean, not truly. That can be corrected."

"That you fell short of my expectations?"

A reflective pause. "No. I know that you are not disappointed."

"The failure was not your fault, Padawan. So what shame is there in it, that you are so disturbed by its notation in a _database?"_

"It's… it's …I don't _want_ it there, Master!" The young frame beneath his hands tensed, and then relaxed. "I'm sorry. But it's not _true. _ It doesn't _count."_

The sun broke free of the distant horizon and lifted its head above the sprawling megalopolis, painting the duracrete canyons in gold and deepest violet, casting illusions upon its textured canvas.

"You will find, Obi-Wan, as you gro older, that a great many things will be said about you – and even _recorded_ concerning you – that are not true. Exaggerations. Rumors. Facts without context. Libel. Legend. Wild accusations. You will not be able to correct them, nor refute them. You will have to learn tolerance for falsehood, and indifference to slander. The _truth_ is something recorded in your heart, not in any exterior medium, even another sentient's opinion."

"Bruck used to say things about me that were not true."

"Yes – and you have grown past caring about his taunts. The academic records should be no different. Your other instructors will see that mark, and wonder whether you are inattentive or lazy. They may even form a judgment before they have experience to verify it- and that will be a salutary lesson for those that do. But you must accept this disjunction between reality and recorded fact."

"But this is the Temple. My _home_."

The older man raised his brows, squinting as the sun's glare drew level with the high window. "Your home is the Force. And the only record that _counts_ is your conscience. Let that suffice for you."

Obi-Wan was silent, brooding on this unwelcome lesson. The chamber filled with fresh radiance, the cool 'cycled air warming a little as light flooded through the curved panes.

"So we won't ever strike that from the record?"

"No, we will not. You will not ask me again."

The padawan sighed. "Yes, Master."

They stood unmoving for another stretch of minutes, awash in the dawn's splendor. Obi-Wan stirred. "So you will also be tolerant and indifferent to the rumor currently circulating in the initiate dorms and junior padawan study halls?"

The Jedi master frowned. "What rumor is this?"

"That you danced the Corellian jig naked in the Council chamber, Master."

Qui-Gon went rigid with surprise, his train of thought abruptly derailed, his hands tightening in alarm. It was only when the boy's shoulders began quivering beneath his steadying grip that he realized he had been _had._

"Wretched _brat,"_ he chuckled. "I will _never _ strike _that_ from your record."

His padawan's grin rose broke over the Force's horizon like a fierce young star. "I would not wish you to," he smirked. "Some lessons must be remembered."

"I see."

They departed before any further mutual enlightenment could be reached.


	7. Chapter 7

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Free Fall**

An apprentice Jedi did not have much in the way of _free time, _as any ordinary adolescent in the free Core worlds understood the concept; the notion of a personal _hobby_ was all but foreign to the Order's esoteric and unique subculture, the pursuit of idle pleasures all but frowned upon. Which made the enjoyment of such rarely stolen moments of frivolity all the more exquisite.

Obi-Wan Kenobi stretched luxuriously, planting one bare foot on the inset bunk's low ceiling panel and curling the toes of his other against the deck plating, heated by a steady influx of warm air from the ship's cycler vents near the floor. He briefly closed his eyes and _basked _ in the absence of space-chill, in the immoderate –and under normal circumstances, forbidden- use of the thermoregulator, in the yielding mat beneath his aching back, the scent of chandrilan balsawood incense still faintly lingering in the cabin's air post-meditation, the featherweight of the datapad propped against his knee, its reader keyed to Master Seva's _Commentary on the Lotus-of-Complexity-in-Unity Sutra _ (an abstruse work which he had to admit was over his head but peppered with delectable turns of phrase and contorted turns of argument) , the fact that he was _not_ piloting, or checking the navcomp, or manning the commsat station, or preparing the mission report.

He was at _leisure, _ and it was good. Very good.

Of course, his stomach _was _rumbling – a reminder that even the best state of affairs can still fall short of absolute perfection – but there was little to be done about that aboard the shuttle. Qui-Gon had promised that they would stop _somewhere_ _special_ for a meal, a sort of ad hoc celebration inserted between the end of this assignment and the inevitable duties that awaited them back at the Temple. The standard Galactic calendar date just _happened_ to coincide with their return journey, he had pointed out, in a tone of voice which richly hinted that there was no such thing as coincidence and they would be remiss in their calling as servants of the Force if they failed to capitalize on this felicitous synchrony of excuse and opportunity.

"Yes, Master," his hours-short-of-fourteen year old apprentice had agreed, trying to keep the eagerness in his voice under tight wraps.

The tall man had merely smiled enigmatically and retired to the cockpit, informing Obi-Wan that he could do what he wished with the intervening hours of transit, a command obeyed with great enthusiasm and diligence by the young Jedi in question.

And now, as he surreptitiously stole another glance at the chrono display imbedded in the reader's frame, he saw that the hour had come - without fanfare or ceremony, it was true, but still. He ran a hand over his face, perhaps subconsciously hoping that the magical transformation wrought by passing time, from one side of the delineating temporal line to the next, might have evoked some hopeful sprouting of stiff bristle- but encountered nothing more than the downiest hints of future scruff upon his chin and upper lip, a paltry dewfall upon a yet-virgin plain.

He sighed and propelled the reader onto the opposite bunk with a frivolous use of the Force, and then rolled off his own cot and slipped through the door, making his way to the cockpit. He was infernally hungry now; perhaps Qui-Gon would be encouraged to make the _detour_ sooner rather than later were he graced with company.

* * *

Qui-Gon guided their vessel down through obscuring veils of cloud, descending through purples and vermilions to a cavernous dome beneath, a place where grav platforms clustered together like lilypads upon an invisible pond, drifting in knots and chains along the high air currents high above the planet's surface.

Obi-Wan peered through the dusky gas below this level. "How far up are we?"

The Jedi master's eyes crinkled at the corners. "You mean how far down is the planet? Technically, there is no surface. Empistos is a gaseous gravitational nexus without a discernible solid core."

"So these are the settlements."

"Such as they are. What do you think?"

Privately, the padawan wondered how anyone could rightly live on a repulsor platform dangling above a bottomless drop without suffering chronic vertigo, but he could sense that he was expected to make a less jaded reply. "It's remarkable."

"The height of their dwellings disturbs you."

"No, Master. Altitude doesn't bother me." Which was perfectly true. "Only _falling."_

"Of course," the tall man replied, tranquilly. "If you can suppress your concerns for a few hours, we might explore what they have to offer in the culinary arts." He reached sideways to tug on his student's dangling braid, a light and teasing acknowledgement of the special occasion. "I believe we have an anniversary to mark."

This was so far superior to being summarily handed a _pretty rock,_ that the man's padawan could only beam with pleasure. Celebrations of a personal nature were somewhat discouraged among the stricter adherents to the Code… but Qui-Gon Jinn did not number among that august number. His was a supple and unpredictable philosophy, one that often confounded his young protégé, and sometimes even frustrated him, but that also on rare occasion brought unexpected delight. And today, against all odds, it looked as though it was going to do the latter.

Obi-Wan had never had a proper _life day_ party before.

* * *

The platform chain upon which they landed was apparently some sort of commercial and entertainment district. The central pads were loaded with tightly packed shops and restaurants, while the outer rim was dedicated to a wide swath of docking spaces – and on the westward side, a tourist attraction ticket office, where a throng of athletic multi-species youngsters in luridly colored unisuits milled about among customers, shepherding them by ones and twos to the edge of the grav-platform where they suddenly disappeared over the edge.

Obi-Wan found himself badly distracted by the spectacle.

"Twi'Lek, Rodian…. Corellian Grill, Mon Cal – that's sea food, but it can't possibly be fresh here, fusion cuisine, what shall we – _"_ Qui-Gon Jinn stopped mid-question, turning half over one shoulder to address his lagging satellite. "Padawan."

"I'm sorry, Master. My attention was wandering."

The tall man raised a brow as his apprentice caught up to him upon the board walk. "And what could possibly be so arresting as to distract you when the question of food is on the line?"

His younger companion pointed in the direction of the garish shop-façade. "What are those people doing?" he demanded.

Qui-Gon, who was blessed with greater height, could easily observe the proceedings over the heads of passers-by. "Ah. That is a sky-jumping station."

Obi-Wan goggled. "They're not wearing any _equipment."_ His eyes narrowed. "There's an inverse grav generator beneath this platform."

"I doubt it." He led the way onward, choosing Core fusion cuisine, since it the establishment seemed less overfilled than its neighbors, and a Jedi was not finicky. "A few thousand meters down, there are thermal updrafts that create an equilibrium field. There will be other platforms waiting to ferry jumpers up from that spot."

"Oh." Obi-Wan looked slightly queasy at the idea of a, say, six thousand meter free fall drop without safety equipment.

An elegant waiter showed them to a table near an outside window, where they had a panoramic view of the mutable skies – and of the plummeting sky-jumpers, each paying customer dropping over the edge in tandem with an experienced instructor, the brightly colored pair quickly swallowed by the maroon cloudbanks below.

"Padawan, you have not even glanced at the menu."

"Hm..? Oh. I'm sorry, Master." The young Jedi made a perfunctory show of perusing the daily offerings, but his ravenous appetite seemed to have disappeared over the edge of the platform with the last of the skyjumpers. Nothing looked remotely appetizing.

Qui-Gon leaned back in his seat and considered his companion thoughtfully. Then, the Force suddenly brightening with a new idea, he snatched the menu from his apprentice's hands and laid it flat upon the tablecloth, gesturing for the boy to be silent. "Waiter."

A droid hovered into sight. "We have decided to order our meal for take out. Two chef's specials with dessert. We'll pick them up in an hour."

"Yes, sir," the automated servant nodded, accepting the Jedi master's credit chit with a deferent nod. "Thank you for your patronage."

"…Master, what are we-?"

"I've decided to present you with your life-day gift before dinner. Come."

The young Jedi trotted obediently at his master's heels. "I don't need a gift, Master," he assured the older man, slightly embarrassed by the prospect. "I – I don't expect any such thing."

Qui-Gon smiled softly. "I know. And yet, sometimes, we must accept what the Force grants us. Before I met you, I did not desire – much less expect – to ever take another Padawan. And yet, here we are, and I would _never_ regret having received such an incomparable gift."

Stunned, Obi-Wan fell into stride beside his mentor. A strange heat tingled in his solar plexus and rose to color his cheeks. His gaze seemed weighted down, glued to the pedestrian path beneath their boots. "Yes, Master," he muttered, entirely at a loss for words. There was no possible way to formulate an objection when the argument was couched in such terms.

The Jedi master placed a hand on his back, gently, and shepherded him through the crowds at a determined pace. They came to halt at the boundary of the docking area.

"Let's have a better look at those jumpers," Qui-Gon suggested, ducking beneath the safety rail and walking carelessly along the half-meter wide ledge at the platform's limit.

Guileless, his padawan followed. Standard Temple balancing exercises were far more demanding, and as he had said earlier: he was not concerned about height, merely about _falling._

They made their way to a good vantage point on the westward facing rim, where they could see the sky-jumping experts instruct their customers in the basics and then take a graceful swan div into the waiting abyss. Specks of colored cloth dwindled and disappeared into the bottomless clouds below, to be followed by another and another pair, like drifting petals. There was a kind of surreal beauty to it, and the Force was a limpid pool scattered with the sharp fearful thrill of a dozen or so sentients hurtling one after another into the fathomless skies.

"It _is_ more interesting from here," Obi-Wan admitted.

"I thought you might appreciate a closer look." Qui-Gon's grey eyes swept out over the formless horizon, where shifting mountains piled and eroded before their very eyes. "And I wanted some privacy in order to present you with a small gift, in honor of the day."

The padawan looked up at him, a tiny furrow of anticipation between his brows, open wonder all over his young face.

"Close your eyes," the tall man commanded, playfully.

Obi-Wan's gaze might have rolled upward sarcastically before he complied, but once the boy had obeyed, Qui-Gon cautiously moved to stand behind him, removing first his apprentice's cloak and then his own, draping them over the rail nearby. He then removed the boy's saber from its place at his left hip and tucked it securely beneath his belt at the small of his back before repeating the same process with his own weapon.

"Master, what are we doing?"

"Take a deep breath, Padawan. Deeper. Release." One hand resting paternally upon his shoulder, the other hand coming round the young Jedi's waist to rest just over his diaphragm in what might be interpreted by a critical observer as an affectionate embrace, Qui-Gon led them through a basic centering exercise. The padawan tensed at first, perhaps wondering whether such an open display of _attachment_ was appropriate…and precisely when his teacher had parted ways with reason… but he slowly and inexorably relaxed as the Jedi master flooded their training bond with a radiant abundance of pride and trust.

Qui-Gon waited until he felt the soft exhalation of gratitude and relief – and then his grip abruptly tightened into an unbreakable protective hold as he _leapt_ headlong over the precipice, taking his utterly astonished padawan with him.

* * *

The world accelerated into a single screaming blur, a rushing wind that wrenched his first horrified cry clean off his lips and sent it spinning away into oblivion among the pallid clouds, a crushing fist of gravity that reached into his bowels and squeezed until his heart was in his throat and his head whirled with a sick-sweet adrenal chill. Noise, thunderous roaring and howling in his ears, buffeting blasts of wind that pierced clean through tunics and raked across goose-pimpled flesh, tore at the roots of his hair, whipped moisture from protesting eyes, a soundless howl from his aching throat.

_Relax,_ a familiar voice echoed deep in his mind, the order weighted with an authority sharper and heavier even than the g-force sucking them down into the plenet's impossibly distant center. Reflexively, he obeyed, barely registering that a pair of strong hands moved deftly to pin his wrists, to pull his arms apart and straight out like a pair of wings. He fell spread-eagled beneath the Jedi master, pinned between the crushing upward pressure of their rushing descent and the tall man's body, flying downward, upward, nowhere. Acceleration peaked, and all at once they were sailing in a roaring tunnel of color and boundless power, the Force _carving_ a way before them, protecting them from the worst of the buffeting, their sickening plummet a glorious hurtling _fall_ into nothing, into everything, into the world's heart.

_Breathe! _ Qui-Gon's warning slammed against his shields just before he passed out. He gasped in a breath against the pressure on his chest, choked, coughed, sucked in another, managed to scream out his instinctive terror and disapproval in one long wail –

-Qui-Gon _chuckling_ in his ear, or through the Force –

-falling, flying, _soaring _like thranctill and fledgling on a shaft of golden Light , aloft on the master's fine –edged control–

-laughing hysterically now, Qui-Gon's wild enjoyment a long growling shout like a battle cry above him –

-hurtling to destruction, into the Force because they were going to _hit bottom there is no bottom there is no death there is only –_

"Padawan!"

-Breath leaving his body again as a wall of heated air slammed into them from below, as their freefall became a turbulent pummeling, as Qui-Gon seized him about the middle again and locked his legs behind his knees and _wrestled_ him down, down, sideways, spinning, tumbling, _going to be sick_ –

_Thud. _ They connected with a solid surface at a velocity great enough to knock them clean apart. Obi-Wan saw stars and fireworks, rolled over and groaned, clutching at whatever it was with a violently trembling relief.

"Give you a lift, sir…? Oh! Master Jedi!"

"Yes, thank you."

Vision and hearing and sense of direction were slowly threshed apart again as Qui-Gon's fingers brushed his temples, pushing the Force back in where the excoriating wind and giddy thrill of descent had left only a dizzy void.

"Ma- Master," Obi-Wan hiccupped, sorting out his shaking limbs and managing to kneel.

A broad hand ruffled his short hair. "Happy life-day, my Padawan."

Vaguely aware that they rode upon a small repulsor lift platform piloted by a staid attendant, that they were gradually returning to the vast altitude from which they had jumped – or been pushed, depending on one's perspective – he could only blink and pant, waiting for his racing pulse to subside into something like normalcy.

The Jedi master's bright blue eyes sparkled. "You may thank me later," he graciously declared, pulling his student against his side with one arm and serenely contemplating the parting veils of lavender, saffron, maroon and glowing orange as they rose slowly back to the commercial district far above.

* * *

Their initial ascent through Empistos' atmosphere and back into clear space was pleasantly quiet, as Obi-Wan sat in the co-pilot's seat, ravenously consuming his delayed supper from the open plasti-foam container propped upon his crossed legs. The lack of conversation, or glum remarks upon the perils and inconveniences of _flying, _ were a sure testament to the chef's skills and the adage that _hunger is a peerless relish. _

As they cruised out of the system's gravitational field, the Padawan crumpled his box into the 'cinerator and unsealed the smaller package containing dessert.

"Muja tart!"

"I hope it is adequate to the occasion."

"…Do _you_ want any?"

Qui-Gon's mouth twitched at one corner. "I would not be so cruel as to answer in the affirmative. Enjoy; you earned it today."

"Thank you, Master."

The tall man feigned shocked gratification. "You have already come to cherish our adventure? I expected at least five more years to pass before you properly expressed your thanks."

His apprentice spared him a very dry look. " It was a life-day I shall not soon forget," he intoned. "Master."

Qui-Gon double checked their jump coordinates. "And I daresay I shall not hear too many complaints about space travel or an occasional flying leap here or there as occasion demands, either."

Obi-Wan cocked his head to one side, considering. "Perhaps not," he acceded. "Most such experiences would pale by comparison."

"Then we have both been given a gift today."

The Padawan answered this with a facetious smile, and then turned his attention to the muja tart, demolishing it entirely by the time they had left realspace behind and entered the weird and warping realm of supralight dimensions. He yawned behind a politely raised hand and sank deeper into the padded chair.

"Why don't you retire?" the Jedi master suggested, kindly. "I can handle the piloting."

"…Yes, Master."

When Qui-Gon eventually reverted the helm to autopilot and went astern to check on his youthful charge, he found the boy soundly asleep, mind furled deep in the Force's currents, body limp with the restorative slumber of true exhaustion. Whether this sweet repose was the result of too much fine food, or the inevitable crash after a sustained adrenaline high, or the innate satisfaction of a lesson well learned, the tall man could not say.

He merely smiled and knelt down upon the decks to meditate. It had been a very, very good life-day.


	8. Chapter 8

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Some Like it Hot**

"I'm going to be one with the Force."

Qui-Gon Jinn raised a dubious brow and leaned in the narrow doorframe. "I do not think so, Padawan. And these soiled garments belong in the laundry receptacle, not strewn about the floor. Pain is no excuse for slovenliness."

A hand rose from the crumpled knot of thermal blanket and waved vaguely in the direction of the room's tiny inset closet. Sash, tunics, and stockings rose from the smooth floor and sailed in the general direction of the open bin stowed therein. One or two pieces actually hit the target, too.

"Dying," the young Jedi observed, dully. "…Not a very glorious demise. I'm sorry, Master."

"You are not dying," the tall man corrected, letting his mouth curl gently upward at the corners. "You are reaping the benefits of imprudence and rash behavior. And no, it is not glorious by any means. I think _soundly humiliating_ might be a better descriptor, would you not agree?"

The ensuing _yesmaster_ was muffled by the cot's one hard pillow.

"I'll fix you some san-san tea, if you think you can hold it down."

The Jedi master interpreted his apprentice's groan as an affirmative and sallied back into the main room to prepare the promised herbal infusion. Tahl watched his every movement with sightless eyes, her head tilted back slightly as though_ scenting_ his mood on the Force's supernal breeze.

"You can be downright cruel, Qui."

He glanced up from his careful preparations. "And my young friend in there can be outright _foolish._ He is far too old to be indulging in such asinine contests."

Her sarcastic chuckle silvered the very air. "Oh yes, we would not want our young aspiring Jedi Knight to pride himself upon vanquishing his peers in meaningless contests of prowess, of mighty lord of the senior level dojo."

Qui-Gon set the pot to steep and clambered onto the worn meditation cushion opposite his lifelong friend. "Martial skills are a vital and necessary discipline; consuming raw sarasata peppers is _not."_

"Except on rare formal diplomatic occasions," Tahl suggested, playing devil's advocate.

The tall man held up one hand. "He's been practicing his rarefied diplomatic skills in the 'fresher all afternoon. I suggested the Healers' ward but he refused; you can direct your maternal protestations to a quarter more likely to attend."

That trumped all other arguments. Tahl stood. "Perhaps I shall," she declared, levitating the dainty cermaplast pot and a fresh teabowl into her golden hands.

* * *

"Here, Padawan, drink all of this up or I shall return to my own quarters and abandon you to the mercy of your irate master."

Obi-Wan struggled upright, innate courtesy overcoming even his obvious agony. He managed a shaky and white-faced smile. "I'm sorry, Master Uvain. It was an inexcusable lapse in judgment. "

"Very pretty words. Drink."

He cupped both hands about the shallow bowl and obeyed.

"Is he truly irate? He didn't feel _angry,_ per se."

She shifted her weight upon the thin mattress' edge, drawing her robe over both knees. "A Jedi does not feel anger, young one. Therefore he is not irate – he merely expressed a burning desire to punish your infraction in the manner most suited to its childish impetuosity."

The young Jedi scowled. "What? Early bedtime for a week?"

Tahl's thin brows arched upward. "He was projecting the rather vibrant image of a _switch, _ actually."

Now Obi-Wan rubbed gingerly at his belly. "The Code forbids it," he grunted.

"Well. The Code also forbids random acts of idiocy, Padawan, so you and Qui are even in that respect. I wouldn't plead the surety of the Precepts as harbor and refuge _here, _ anyway." She reached forward and patted his clammy cheek. "A word to the wise."

"Wait! Master!"

But Tahl merely confiscated the empty tea-bowl and took her graceful leave, abandoning the padawan to his not-quite-silent suffering.

* * *

Clee Rhara contacted him by commlink not long after Tahl finally left.

"Master Jinn. I wish to convey my apologies for my padawan's inappropriate conduct this afternoon. I understand he caused harm to both himself and your own apprentice with his ill considered notions of _recreation."_

Qui-Gon's brows rose. "I assure you, blame is to be apportioned equally. Obi-Wan is currently… completing a suitable penance." He watched impassively as his apprentice's thoroughly disheveled figure emerged hastily from the smaller bedroom and made a very purposeful dash for the 'fresher. The sliding panel snapped shut behind him.

"I am sorry to hear it. I have failed my own student in this respect, and I crave your pardon for the oversight in his training, and the inconvenience this has imposed upon you."

"It is all for the good," Qui-Gon assured Garen Muln's dismayed master. "And it would not be the first time the pair of them have found trouble together." Indeed, if the clanmasterTroon Palo had any input for the record, it would seem the close friends had been making mischief since before either of them could remember.

"Garen will be secluded in quarters for three days practicing the _shok'hai ro_ meditations – so soon as the healers release his sorry hide to my custody again," Master Rhara informed him. She sighed. "I do not understand why two such otherwise sensible and serious young men can devolve into such a pair of bloody _chupa bookis_ when left to their own devices."

The tall man smiled a little at his colleague's lapse in decorum. "I assure you, it is a more common malady than you might suppose, for the male of the species." Memory of his own teen-aged years supplied one or two vibrant supporting examples, but Clee didn't need all _that_ much information.

"Hmm,' the other master responded. "I appreciate your patience, Master Jinn. May the Force grant me even a paltry fraction of it."

When the link was severed, Qui-Gon tapped hesitantly at the 'fresher door. "You have not become one with the Force after all, have you, Padawan mine?"

An incoherent moan from the other side of the plasteel panel assured him that this tragedy had not come to pass.

"Good," he called merrily to his student. "I would not wish you to miss out on the edifying lecture I've prepared."

Another moan. Qui-Gon wandered away, chuckling to himself.

* * *

Tahl brought up a packet of flat-bread and a vial of chalky powder late in the evening.

"Where's your pathetic life form?" she demanded, bypassing Qui-Gon where he sat placidly reading, and made a beeline for the padawan's small sleeping chamber.

The Jedi master unhurriedly finished his treatise and waved the window shades to a greater opacity, sealing his quarters in a warm glow cast by the flickering meditation candles upon their simple stand.

A few minutes later, Tahl reemerged, trailed by a much subdued Obi-Wan, wrapped tightly in his cloak and looking marginally healthier, if a bit haggard around the edges.

"Master," this person rasped, tottering forward and slowly lowering himself to one knee in the posture of humility, while Tahl looked on benignly, blind and yet somehow still _seeing._

"Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon settled again in his customary place.

"I regret my actions," the young Jedi declared, head bowed in contrition. "They were frivolous in motive, and far beneath a Padawan of this Order. Also the …natural consequences of such actions resulted in the waste of an entire day, which I would better have spent in study or meditation, or in training with you, Master."

The tall man nodded. "True."

"I – I chose to endure the results of my poor choice here rather than seeking easy comfort from the healers," Obi-Wan continued, in a quiet and husky voice. Qui-Gon looked over his bowed head at Tahl, whose generous lips quirked into a wry smile, signaling that she and felt the same twist of mingled pity and chagrin at the padawan's self-flagellating words.

"I know I deserve the discomfort and have brought it on myself." Obi-Wan pressed doggedly onward . "And I submit myself to your correction, Master. " He risked an upward glance , a faint ephemera of his habitual insouciance wafting across their bond. "Even if it involves that _edifying lecture _ you prepared earlier."

"You'll be lucky to get off with a mere lecture," Qui-Gon growled. "Have a seat."

Tahl adjusted her robes. "I'll take that as my cue to leave," she said, gliding toward the door. "I don't know if I could stomach one of your lectures, Qui."

When the portal had hissed closed behind her, Qui-Gon raised his brows and carefully reinforced his mental shields. "On the other hand, I am not sure whether a lecture would truly expunge the brand of your iniquity."

His student regarded him warily, slim fingers threaded together in his lap and held rigidly still by force of willpower.

"Let us have the story from the beginning," the Jedi master suggested.

* * *

"Look what I've got, Obi."

He squinted at the wrinkled pods, held aloft between Garen Muln's thumb and forefinger.

"What did you kill to get those?" he scoffed.

"Nothing." The other padawan snorted. "Had to suffer through a galactic botany practicum with Master Pertha this morning… these suckers were growing in the small arboretum. He's got about a hundred varieties of poisonous herbs and fruits in there, all arranged in neat rows… it's something else."

"I can only imagine."

"The carnivorous ones are a nasty lot of barves, but this – _this_ is a sarasata pepper."

"Do enlighten me." They sat together at a table in the far corner of the refectory, conveniently distant from the bustle and clatter of the main hall.

Garen deposited his treasure between their trays and laid into his midday repast with great gusto. "On certain primitive Rim worlds, the pepper is employed in the coming-of-age-rituals by the Trebuxxi tribesmen. They shuck off the skin and press the juice out – it's just _loaded_ with capsaicin- and they make a kind of ointment out of it that gets smeared _everywhere. _" He swallowed a bread roll in two bites, grinning impishly. "And I mean everywhere. Agony! Can you imagine?"

"I am trying to _eat,_ Garen, so I'd really rather not if it's the same to you."

"You're a dreadful cultural elitist, Obi."

He cocked a sardonic brow at the other boy. "By all means, Garen, if you wish to _go native_ in this respect, I would be happy to assist you." He snatched at the peppers threateningly, but Garen anticipated the move. Their brief flash of a tussle ended up launching the disputed seed-pods onto the floor.

"You're such a snotty barve," Garen chuckled, retrieving his prizes and gently wiping them clean on his handcloth. "They have a folk custom – it's also considered a measure of one's virility – the ability to eat one of these raw, I mean."

"What rot."

"You say that because you harbor doubts about your own manhood, admit it."

Obi-Wan was in the habit of harboring doubts about _many_ things, but this was not on his list of insecurities. "I have other solid evidence, Garen. I'm sorry you have to resort to such extraneous means of ascertaining the facts."

He ducked the utensil Force-flicked at his head.

"You're just afraid to eat one."

_What?_ "Garen, I don't know where you come by half the bantha chiszzk-"

"-That's next week's practicum. Fertilizers and soil amendment techniques-"

"Besides, they can't be half as bad as you make out. I've seen these before. Master Qui-Gon ate one at a banquet – he just popped it in his mouth and swallowed."

Garen spread his hands. "We could ask him to arbitrate the dispute."

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. "There is no dispute. You are full of nerf –dung, and that is all there is to the matter. But take heart – you'll pass Master Pertha's next intensive with flying colors."

"If it's not half as bad as I say, then what's stopping you? Afraid you can't measure up to your master?"

"Don't project your own fears onto me, Garen."

These were fighting words. Master Clee Rhara was a formidable wielder of the Force, but she was, due to certain natural physiological differences, not a likely subject of envy in this respect.

"That's it! Come on, coward, let's see if you've got any bite behind that bark."

"Fine. And when _you _survive the ordeal, we'll know the old folk custom is absolute bunk."

They popped the sarasata peppers into their mouths simultaneously and chewed with a warlike determination.

Which may not have been a good idea.

* * *

"Tell me," the Jed master said, when this amusing narrative had reached its conclusion," What in stars' name made you think you could safely consume even one raw sarasata pepper?"

"Oh." Some color returned to the young Jedi's wan features, embarrassment splotching his cheekbones with crimson. "I, uh… don't you recall? On Yarbix, in the cheiftain's hall – at the ceremonial feast after the treaty was signed… _you_ ate one, Master!" he blurted out, at last. "And it didn't seem to do you much harm." Obi-Wan's eyes dropped to his hands again.

Ah, yes. he had forgotten that insignificant occasion until now. He had not been aware that his gesture would attract his young apprentice's notice at all. "There are many things I can do that you _cannot, _Padawan," he reminded his apprentice, voice flinty. "Hence the difference in our respective ranks."

The boy squirmed, a little. "Yes, Master, I am sorry for my presumption."

"It took a great deal of practice and concentration to achieve that skill, anyway,:" Qui-Gon told him. "Apart from any other consideration."

"So it can be learned!" Obi-Wan brightened. "You could teach me."

"But I will not."

Disappointed, the padawan looked down again. "Yes, Master. … Because –"

"Because _I_ am the master, " the tall man smirked. "And because I do not want you engaging in any such inane and potentially harmful contest ever again."

"Yes, Master," his apprentice intoned resignedly.

"And for the record, bratling, the Tribuxxi tribal beliefs regarading the pepper are very much true and accurate."


	9. Chapter 9

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Damsel in Distress**

"The refueling should not take long. Stay with the ship; I'll return shortly."

Obi-Wan nodded his assent and watched the tall Jedi master stride away across the bustling decks of the local spaceport, in search of a storehouse where they might replenish certain vital supplies: the shipboard water filter was in need of replacement, the food stores badly depleted, the thermocycler wanting a new regulator circuit board, and their compacted garbage unit desperately begging to be emptied. En route from one tedious diplomatic assignment to the next, they had no opportunity to complete such routine errands or maintenance upon Coruscant.

Another pragmatic notion occurred to him just as Qui-Gon's head – visible over the milling crowd even from fifty meters distant – finally disappeared into the vast building wing that housed the commissary, port authority, and tariff free shops. Obi-Wan trotted down their shuttle's ramp and checked the access hatches on the hull's underside, peering critically up into the tangled masses of wire and welded components. Yes, as he had suspected.

He contacted the Jedi master via commlink.

"Jinn."

"We need new power cells for the active scanner arrays. Gamma-fours. Half a dozen. Oh – and some antioxidant wouldn't be a bad idea, either."

Humor threaded its way through the older man's next words. "Is there anything else, Padawan? A loaf of bread and a carton of fresh bantha milk, perhaps?"

The droid dutifully overseeing the replenishment of their fuel supplies stared at him blankly, missing the joke. Obi-Wan turned his back on its morose face-plate. His brows quirked upward. "No, Master. I would not want you to return with any _extra_ provisions."

Qui-Gon's cut the link with a softly sarcastic snort.

Well. It wasn't Obi-Wan's fault if his revered mentor had a habit of picking up native life forms or other dubious _souvenirs_ in the course of his various missions and expeditions. Leave it to Qui-Gon Jinn, devotee of the Living Force, to collect charity cases and pathetic strays everywhere he went, handily quadrupling the trouble and fuss associated with any given assignment and oftentimes vexing the Living _pizzmah_ out if his far more staid and reasonable apprentice.

The young man shoved his commlink back in its belt pouch and stifled an urge to check the external flamm retardant reservoir. The console readout had indicated acceptable levels in all the fluid pressurizer capsules; he need not _fuss._ The Force fluttered in silent agreement – and then fluttered again, tiny glowmoths of curiosity sparkling in the aethereal depths. He turned.

"Hi," a timid voice addressed him, from behind a landing strut.

She was the very embodiment of all things waifish: ragged clothing leaving bony shoulders bare, dirty feet clad in makeshift sandals, protruding cheekbones beneath wide, shadowed eyes, a grotty headwrap loosely bound about her unkempt hair, hunger and wariness etched in her posture and the Force about her.

"I'm Rifa," the small human girl informed him, losing some of her timidity and coming round the thick pillar of metal. One hand trailed along the ship's hull, tracing nervous circles on the tritanium plating. "Who are you?"

"I'm… a visitor. A Jedi. From Coruscant."

She took this in soberly. "Is that your weapon?" A scrawny finger indicated the 'saber hilt at his belt.

"Yes. I won't hurt you. Jedi are sworn to protect the innocent. This is for defense."

Rifa smiled at the assurance, stepping another pace closer. She folded her dirty arms over her chest and studied him intently. "I live by myself," she said. "Do you? Is this your ship?"

He crouched down, trying to project a less threatening aura. Alone? Did she not have a guardian or parent, then? He glanced about the port, seeking some sign of an adult to whom she might belong, but the Force whispered quietly, not a stray ripple of attention directed her way. "This is my ship, yes. I came here with my teacher," he offered, wondering what the proper planetary authority would be. Surely a lost child must be not be left to wander the port aimlessly. There were underhanded beings in the galaxy… and the slave trade was not unheard of in these border regions…

"Your teacher?" the beggar-child exclaimed. "You're a kid!"

"I'm seventeen standard," he retorted, purposefully blunting the edge of his annoyance. "That's an adult on your world."

She eyed him appraisingly. "My brother's seventeen, too."

Ah, an older sibling. This was an auspicious sign. "Where is this brother of yours?" he inquired, gently.

Her eyes widened. "Dead." She swept her gaze over his shoulder, above their heads, all about. "Could be anywhere."

The padawan found himself chuckling softly at her matter-of-fact statement. "Where do you live, Rifa? You should not be wandering here alone."

She shrugged, gesturing vaguely across the port. "In the 'lator shafts. 'S warm in there – lots of folks live down there who don't got regular houses."

His eyes followed the invisible line of her thoughts, memories. A faint image of slovenly, crowded tunnels, scavenged food cooked over generator coils…"Your parents live there too? Your family?"

"Don't got parents. I was raised by the womprats," the girl boldly proclaimed, chest puffing out. "How 'bout you?"

Obi-Wan could easily recognize when an uncomfortable question was turned back upon its originator. He smiled lightly."No, no parents for me either. And I was raised by a wild mountain akk."

He felt her loyalty expand to include him as a kindred spirit.

Rising to his feet, he looked about the busy decks of the landing platform again. It was a conundrum… but Master Qui-Gon would know what to do. He extended a hand to the filthy girl. "Here. Why don't you come aboard and I'll find you something to eat?"

Her budding affinity for him blossomed into hero worship.

* * *

Qui-Gon returned to the Republic shuttle to find a complete stranger sitting in the passenger cabin, industriously consuming what little remained of their shipboard rations.

The Jedi master bowed politely to the tiny being, noting her bedraggled appearance, and swept into the cockpit to consult with his apprentice, who was absorbed in the database.

"You've brought home a young lady," he quipped.

Obi-Wan glanced up from his perusal of the planetary public services index. "They haven't a decent orphanage here," he said, without preamble.

The tall man deposited leaned over the padawan's shoulder. "Ah…yes. Vanax custom relegates such individuals to work cooperatives; the younglings are contracted to repay the cost of their upbringing in labor. It sometimes takes decades to pay the debt."

His apprentice's back stiffened in outrage. "Is that legal?"

"It is here, and the Republic respects planetary sovereignty. Why?"

"That's indentured servitude, not charity! I can't leave her in such a place."

A smile kindling in the depths of his eyes, Qui-Gon slid into the pilot's seat beside his student. "Ah. So our guest is _your_ pathetic life form."

Obi-Wan crossed his arms defensively. "This is completely different, Master! She found _me…_ I didn't go haring off on a quixotic whim to rescue her."

The Jedi master leaned back, amusement dancing in the Force about him. "Ah I stand corrected, my poor long-suffering Padawan. The child forced herself upon you and you are duty-bound to come to her succour. All very proper. Carry on."

Now the young Jedi dropped his gaze and tapped fingers impatiently against his 'saber's hilt. "I ..ah, actually I hoped to ask your advice."

The older man raised an eyebrow.

"Blast it, Master! I don't know what to do with her." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the passenger cabin. "This is more your speciality."

Qui-Gon remained silent, expectancy hanging unspoken between them.

"And do not tell me to search my feelings – because _they_ told me to consult you!" Obi-Wan growled, his stern visage melting into a comical expression of helplessness.

The tall man leaned further back in this chair. "Have you bothered to ask the pathetic life form in question what _she_ wants? I find that opening up basic channels of communication is always a good first step in any diplomatic impasse."

Obi-Wan reached up to tug briefly on his right earlobe, then cast a furtive glance back through the hatchway. "Ah, no," he admitted, mortification tingeing the Force. "But she's only a youngling."

"I met a youngling once," Qui-Gon idly observed, "Who was quite certain what he wanted of life, and of the elders whom the Force deigned to throw in his path."

This had the padawan blushing outright.

"I should introduce you to him someday. You have much in common," the Jedi master teasingly elaborated.

His student rose and made him a deep bow. "Good. Perhaps we can commiserate together." He passed back into the aft hold with jaunty step, leaving Qui-Gon to chuckle softly in his wake.

* * *

"Is there any more food?" was the first thing the child asked upon his reappearance.

He sat on the bunk, clasping his hands between his knees. "No. Not for a bit – it's all frozen solid."

"Oh." Rifa wiped her mouth on a ragged bit of hem and stared up at him, her knees tucked up under her chin where she sat neatly upon the narrow deck between bunk and bulkhead. "So.. .are you going to fly this ship to another place?"

He realized that it would be easier to broach the topic were they on a par. He slid down to sit on the floor across from her, tucking his legs crosswise beneath him. "Rifa," he addressed the child in his most engaging and direct tone. "We are on a mission to another planet, and we need to depart from here as soon as possible. I am concerned about your well being. You live with womprats, without a proper home… but the work cooperatives here do not seem like a good place to live either."

"I know that, silly! Why else would I be in the shafts with all the others?" She tilted her head to one side, wide eyes limpid with frank curiosity. "Who's that funny tall man that came in? Is that your teacher? Is he a Jedi too?"

Obviously, it was up to him to keep the conversation on track. "Yes, but listen to me. I have a ... a _bad feeling _ about leaving you where you came from."

She nodded, earnest and – perhaps, the Force shuddered, fearful. "I don't want to stay I'm almost too old. When I'm old enough, the womprats'll get me. Happens to all the girls. N some of the boys too. Can't stay down there without my brother. But he's dead."

"Yes, I'm sorry." He was; her simple, untutored grief tore at his soul. But what in the blazes was he _supposed to do_ about her predicament?

"I could come with you," the girl brightly supplied, as though reading his thought. "I won't eat all the food, I promise."

Obi-Wan stared. "But- but there are rules," he explained, haltingly. "I can't simply remove you from your planet of origin without your consent, or without your legal guardian's consent ," – not that Master Qui-Gon would give a womprat's arse about such technicalities – "And you haven't really anywhere to go."

"I'l find a place," Rifa assured him, confidence exuding in waves from her slight frame. "I'll get along. 'Slong as there's no womprats."

The young Jedi swallowed, and turned it over in his mind. Force, why did these things happen to him? A simple firefight or terrorist bombing would be far easier to resolve without compromising his ethical sensibilities… "Fine," he agreed, before rational thought could arrest the impulsive promise of heart and instinct. "You can come."

She launched herself into his arms, bestowing a very tender and chaste kiss upon his cheek.

"You're scratchy!" she complained. "I won't be trouble. Tell the other Jedi, please."

He extricated himself, ran a pleased hand over his own face and noted that it _could _possibly be described as roughly textured, and decided that the little urchin deserved a proper Jedi rescue if any pathetic life form in the galaxy did.

"Stay here." The brusque command covered a brief flood of unfamiliar emotion as he swept back into the cockpit.

* * *

"Imitation is the most sincere form of flattery. I am honored by the heartfelt compliment, Obi-Wan."

His protégé cast his eyes down. "The Force prompted me to act and I obeyed, " he mumbled, in a pained undertone.

Qui-Gon beamed. "You need not justify yourself to _me, _Padawan."

"Yes, Master."

"And you will be pleased to know that the government of Medrax 6 has a well-administrated foster care program for wards of the state. I am sure the Premier's staff can smooth over the legalities for us. Your stray should be placed with a far better home than she has yet known."

Obi-Wan smiled, relieved. "When did you learn this?"

"I made the appropriate inquiries while you were speaking with her."

"Am I _that_ predictable, Master?"

The tall man's eyes twinkled. "No; had you decided to leave the child here, I would simply have dropped you off with the adoption authorities in her stead."

An agreeable silence settled between them as they cleared atmosphere and prepared for the short hyperspace jump to their next destination.

"There was something she said that idn't make sense to me," Obi-Wan ventured after a few minutes' thought. "She said that the womprats get all the girls when they are _old enough…_ surely the indigent community would prevent that sort of rampant predation? "

The Jedi master chuckled darkly. "You still have much to learn."

"What do you mean?"

"The _Womprats_ are a kind of loose crime organization beneath the surface of orderly society on her planet. A gang of sorts. And what she says is lamentably true, I have no doubt. The moment she became nubile, I fear her life would have been very difficult indeed."

"Oh." His apprentice gravely studied the glittering field of stars. "She did need a rescue, then."

"Did you doubt, Padawan? The Force moves in mysterious ways."

A faint crease of dissatisfaction appeared between Obi-Wan's brows. "But then…. the others…"

The tall man turned to regard him, a warmth of empathy suffusing their small refuge. "I understand. But that is no reason not to do what little good you are able. Who knows? Even the timely rescue of one child might someday alter the balance of the galaxy as a whole. Ours is not to know, but to do."

"Yes, Master."

"In the meanwhile, perhaps you should keep your new friend company. She is sure to be lonely – and picking up strays involves a great deal of responsibility."

Obi-Wan offered him a wry grimace and retired to the back compartment without the usual bevy of witticisms. The Jedi master watched him go, and then smiled, launching them into the blurring vortex of starlight ahead.

On rare occasion, he reflected, there was no need to _teach_ at all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Roughing It- Part 1**

"So… this will involve camping?" Obi-Wan clarified, dutifully suppressing any hint of emotion or disapproval.

Qui-Gon Jinn leaned back against the passenger compartment bulkhead. "Unless you intend to complete the entire ascent in the course of one day without resting, yes, Padawan. We will need to pitch a camp at night."

"_Primitive_ camping."

The tall man's brows lifted gently. "You will be carrying the ambassadorial suite on your back, if that is what you are asking, Obi-Wan."

The young Jedi studied his – perfectly clean- fingernails, mouth twisting ruefully. "I just wanted to be clear on precisely _how_ filthy this is going to be."

The Jedi master waved a hand through the air, gesturing vaguely. "Abject savagery, young one. As in _digging a hole_ when natural occasion calls for it."

His apprentice's jaw hardened into a stubborn line. "Sounds like an occasion for exercising subtle control over involuntary functions."

Now Qui-Gon leaned forward, thin laugh lines radiating about his eyes. He tweaked his student's short braid. "You are hereby forbidden to do any such thing. Fastidiousness is not the Jedi way."

Obi-Wan's arms crossed sullenly over his chest. "Yes, Master."

"Besides," the tall man continued, placatingly, "I am depending upon you to set a good example for Padawan Minou."

This change of topic provided a salutary distraction.

"I think he was in Bear Clan… but I was under the impression he was quite a bit younger. I remember Garen and he playing push-feather once, and he was only knee-high."

"Ah. But Zygerrians grow and mature rapidly. Unlike certain members of Dragon clan, hm?"

The jest earned him an eloquent scowl. "Quality is worth waiting for, Master. I thought patience was the Jedi way?"

"Indeed. Judging by the wait time, I am giddy with anticipation for the final result… however distant in the future that may be."

"I wouldn't focus on events _too_ far in the future, Master," his apprentice archly replied. "A man of your advanced years would do better to count his present blessings."

"Brat. You are going to shame your old Master in front of an old friend. Feemor will doubtlessly accuse me of losing my touch."

"I haven't met Master Ossus before. You haven't told me about him."

There was a slight undercurrent of accusation in the young Jedi's tone; Qui-Gon smiled wolfishly. "I can seldom get a word in edgewise, Obi-Wan. How am I to tell you _anything?"_

"I'm listening _now,_ Master."

But the tall man merely broadened his smile and leaned back again. "Patience _is_ the Jedi way, Padawan."

* * *

Padawan Minou's silken headfur bristled as he made the requisite bow of respect to Qui-Gon Jinn – a Jedi master whose reputation, it would seem, always preceded him.

The lithe young Zygerrian's master, on the other hand, clearly knew the tall man well – his laughing amber brown eyes communicated a wry awareness of his new apprentice's thoughts regarding the infamous maverick and a secret enjoyment of the joke at Qui-Gon's expense.

Whereupon the latter person's Padawan took it in his turn to bristle.

_Obi-Wan._ A placating hand settled on the young Jedi's shoulder. "Feemor, this is my Padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi."

It would be difficult not to like Feemor Ossus upon first introduction – the man emanated a warmth and wisdom not unlike Qui-Gon's own. But Obi-Wan was up to any challenge where the defense of his mentor's honor was concerned, and he did _not_ like the casual insouciance of this interloper's attitude toward his revered teacher.

"Master Ossus," he said, with perfect cool formality, bowing just a little lower than Zee Minou had.

Both older men broke into a hearty laugh, startling their two smaller companions badly.

"Feemor," Qui-Gon smirked. "I am afraid the younger generation is laboring under a misconception." He extended both arms then, and embraced the other Jedi in the seldom-seen kiss of peace, a rare display of affection and trust. The gesture was returned with great solemnity.

"It has been far, far too long, Master," Feemor Ossus replied, his eyes still laughing.

Obi-Wan gaped, and then blushed, focused suddenly upon the small gleek beetle crawling over his left boot-toe.

"Why don't you two young ones unload the survival gear from the shuttle? I'll have our pilot drop us at the trailhead."

"Yes, Master," Padawan Minou purred, scampering up the open ramp with his ears flattened against his head.

Qui-Gon waved a hand at his own apprentice, sending him off on the same errand. As the young Jedi ascended into their shuttle's hull, he risked a backward glance only to find that Qui-Gon Jinn and the other Knight were already deeply engaged in fond conversation, their dark cloaks ruffling merrily in the cool morning breeze.

* * *

The Zygerrian Padawan did not prove so timid once they were out of earshot.

"Is it true?" he demanded, so soon as they were alone in the hold.

Obi-Wan opened the first storage locker. "Is _what_ true?" he retorted, wincing at the vexed timbre of his own voice.

Zee's exotically slanted eyes narrowed, his fur rippling again. "Does he defy the Council? Does he flout every regulations? That he orders you to do the same? Can he really _disappear_ and _reappear_ in another place with the aid of the Force?"

His interlocutor's expression must have been comical, for Padawan Minou's throaty chuckle echoed off the smooth duraplast paneling.

Obi-Wan dumped the survival gear into the textured deck matting and checked in the other locker. "No," he answered, curtly. "There is no such thing as Force teleportation, and you should not listen to all the rumors you hear in the initiate dorms."

Especially the ones about _Padawan Kenobi's_ infamous exploits.

The young Zygerrian grinned, as though reading his companion's thoughts, revealing alarmingly pointed teeth. "I was sort of hoping it all _was_ true," he confessed.

Obi-Wan softened toward him, a bit. Besides, Zee was only _nine _standard years old, though he looked more to be an age-mate. Allowances had to be made. "There's two protein bars left. The kind with cairbb. Want one?"

They enthusiastically demolished the remaining shipboard rations – a Jedi was always prepared, and an adolescent always hungry – and shouldered their various burdens, dividing the load equally despite Zee's apparent smaller size.

"Master Ossus said we'll be _roughing it,"_ the Zygerrian lamented quietly as they descended the ramp again. His tone conveyed a delicate distaste, one tinged with contempt. "Dirt _everywhere," _he hissed.

Obi-Wan decided that the younger padawan was a very decent fellow. "So uncivilized," he agreed.

* * *

The day's arduous ascent – up the steep incline that comprised the mountain's lower reaches- was not so very uncivilized. Though barren and desolate, the rock face was devoid of abundant filth, washed by perpetual rains and polished to sea-stone smoothness by a grit-laden wind. By noon, the entire party was drenched to the bone and all but Zee, who had the natural advantage of thicker skin, felt their faces and hands had been scoured to a tender redness.

They found shelter from the downpour in a natural overhang. The masters huddled comfortably at the back of this dank portico, watching in amusement as the padawans hauled the heavy gear into the cleft and settled miserably beside them.

Zee Minou was all but hissing audibly as he folded himself down beside Feemor Ossus.

"You fretted about _dirt_ during the entire journey here, Zee, and now you don't appreciate the Force-given bath? A Jedi should not be so contrary," the Knight gently chided.

His apprentice hunched into a disconsolate and darkly muttering ball.

Obi-Wan caught his own teacher's eye, a glint of amusement shining in the Force between them. Apparently he was not the _only _long-suffering padawan in the Order to endure relentless teasing at the hands of his master.

Qui-Gon chuckled softly. "Misery loves company; I think you and Zee might be fast friends."

Master Ossus was more bark than bite, however, for he quickly rummaged in the packs and brought forth some self-heating ration packs, which he distributed to the younger pair of Jedi first. "We made good progress," he observed kindly. "If the storm lets up, we may yet make the lower summit by nightfall."

This seemed to amuse Qui-Gon. "Do you remember Terguu 3?"

Feemor Ossus indulged in a long chuckle. "I've blocked the recollection." He dared a broad wink in Obi-Wan's direction. "Repressing traumatic memory has been my foremost means of recuperating from your master's training."

The young Jedi glanced sideways at his mentor, but the tall man merely smiled indulgently and wagged an amiable finger at Zee. "He's dropping a clue, young one. Attend carefully."

The Zygerrian listened to the exchange with perked ears and wide yellow eyes. His broad flat nose twitched confusedly. "What do you mean?"

Obi-Wan sprawled backward on his elbows. "They mean they will present us for the Trials so soon as we've grown wise enough to ignore their wisdom."

Zee gaped.

Feemor guffawed. "You've grown soft, Qui-Gon! I would have been climbing the mountainside naked for such insolence!"

"Not completely," the Jedi master corrected him. "You would have been wearing both packs as well." He fixed his current apprentice with a very penetrating look.

"Ah…I regret my bold words?" Obi-Wan ventured.

"Too late, Padawan. I think you and Zee should continue on to the summit together. Feemor and I will catch up with you later. Be sure to have supper waiting for us when we arrive."

* * *

The second half of the climb was far worse. The mountainside rose in sheer cliffs punctuated by the slimmest of cracks and crevices, and slicked with mosses and lichens. It was excruciating work, even with the dubious assistance of their cable launchers. Zee was a naturally talented climber, but his audacity came at the usual cost. Two –thirds of the way up, as the sun was setting behind them, painting the slippery rocks beneath their sore and bleeding fingers with a glowing magenta fire, his overconfidence led to a dangerous slip.

Obi-Wan let go his left handhold and seized the other padawan's leg as he slid past, clawing futilely at the stone wall for purchase. Zee's weight wrenched at his other shoulder, wrapped in precautionary fashion about a cable, and pulled him free of the cliff face. They both traced a lazy half-circle in mid-air an the end of their tether and then slammed back into the unforgiving rock with a yowl and a curse, respectively.

The Force enabled Obi-Wan to heave his companion a half-meter upward, where the Zygerrian Jedi found two precarious handholds – but not enough leverage to continue the ascent.

"Drop the pack."

Zee glared up at him, fur upright in fear and indignation. "Our supplies! We need them!"

"You need your _skin_ more." Obi-Wan growled. The younger boy's fingers closed about his ankle, seeking a lifeline. The Force was turgid with emotion – shame and embarrassment foremost among them. He softened his tone. "It's my decision – I'm senior and I'm _telling_ you to drop it! I'll take responsibility."

Master Ossus' student still hesitated.

"Blast it, we're both going to fall!"

"All right, all right," Zee mewled, ears flattened and lips curling back over sharp teeth. He struggled and shrugged, and the heavy load of survival equipment plummeted downward into the mists. They could not hear its impact.

But the sacrifice was worth the gain, for without the restricting burden, Zee was more than agile enough to scramble to safety. "Thank you," he panted, over one shoulder. "I …I am sorry."

"Just keep going." They could settle rights and wrongs when they were both safely at the summit rendezvous. Though it was going to be difficult to obey their masters' injunction to have supper waiting; the young Zygerrian had been carrying most the foodstuff.

* * *

They made it to the top just as sunlight failed and the night's damp closed down upon the looming peaks like a smothering fist. The two padawans lay prostrate upon the uneven plateau at the mountain's summit, catching their breath and cataloging their bruises and cuts.

Zee seemd overwhelmed, so Obi-Wan took charge. "Look," he said. "We need a light."

"Was in my pack," the younger boy moaned.

"Then activate your 'saber."

The other padawan cringed. "Don't have one," he confessed. "I – this is actually my first time out of Temple." His head tucked itself between his knees after this announcement. "I'm not as ready as I thought."

Oh. Well, nine was a bit young, even by non-human standards, wasn't it? But that certainly changed things. "It's all right. Master Ossus will still be pleased with your progress – we made it to the top, didn't we? Look – here's my 'saber. Hold it up so I can see the medkit."

Zee wordlessly cooperated, and Obi-Wan tended their minor injuries. His pack contained one thermal shelter, two sleeping packets, a water purifier kit and two rumpled cloaks – his and Qui-Gon's. He gave the smaller one to his companion, for now that the heat of exertion had worn away, they felt the night air as a knifing chill, a ravenous mouth gnawing at their flesh.

"Keep holding that. I'll get the shelter up. And then we should collect some wood for a fire." Though there was _nothing_ up here but the cantankerous sky and themselves. Lightning flashed overhead, momentarily out-shining the 'sabers' blade.

"So, so how long have you been a padawan?" Zee asked. "A lot of years, I guess."

"Not that many."

"Master Ossus was curious about you," the Zygerrian confided in him. "I was worried – I thought this was some kind of test. A comparison."

"Oh, it's a test, believe me." Obi-Wan cast a wry glance heavenward, where the storm lay in ambush. He exhaled on a controlled breath. "But I'm not the standard. I'm sure your master just wondered whether …well, whether Master Qui-Gon has gone soft in his old age."

Zee's teeth made another brief appearance. "I can't believe you got away with that comment earlier. That was hilarious."

"It was stupid," Obi-Wan told him. "I'll pay for it later." Which was likely enough true. He should have watched himself more carefully – wasn't he supposed to be a good example to his inexperienced comrade? "No – not like that," he hastily assured the other padawan. "I don't mind. It's – well, it's… complicated."

They crawled inside the shelter together. Without the saber's light, they were sealed in a friendly darkness. But the small space soon warmed with their body heat and eased the ache in their throats and lungs. They sat cross-legged and waited.

"They're coming," Zee whispered.

It was true – they could feel the other Jedi slowly but steadily approach, making their painstaking way up the cliff in complete darkness. But the Force carried not an iota of concern or trepidation within its currents – the masters apparently were making a pleasant social occasion of the demanding physical exercise. "Yes, and we haven't any dinner to offer when they get here," Obi-Wan quipped.

"Will you get in trouble for that too?" the younger member of the party inquired.

"Oh yes." A tiny invisible grin wasted upon its audience.

Zee Minou hugged himself and shivered, the Force tautening with his simmering anxiety.

Nine years old was _far_ too young to be apprenticed, Zygerrian or not. Obi-Wan unrolled the sleeping packs. "It's dangerously cold. We should conserve energy – lie down close to me."

The simple comfort this provided his new acquaintance was expressed as a deep, thrumming purr. Obi-Wan pulled his nervous young friend close and snugged down into his own heat-packet. If the drone of Zee's contentment and the exhaustion of the climb conspired to lull them both to sleep within minutes, there was none to take notice or to remark upon it.

At least, not until Feemor Ossus and Qui-Gon Jinn arrived a half hour later, and exchanged an amused smile at the spectacle of two Jedi padawans curled up like a pair of fluffy hanadak cubs.

**(To be continued)**


	11. Chapter 11

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Roughing It – Part 2**

"If you gentlemen can rouse yourselves sufficiently to eat, dinner is served."

The mention of food was more than enough incentive for the two padawans to shake off their torpor and blink open two pair of eyes, squinting in the glare of a glow-lamp suspended over their faces. Qui-Gon and Feemor Ossus crouched beside the groggy pair, lined faces both glowing with windburn and mischief.

"But… we lost all the food," Zee protested, rubbing at his eyes with both fists. "I'm truly sorry, Master. I dropped my pack."

"I told him to," Obi-Wan interjected, around a wide yawn. "We were struggling. It was the only way."

"It was my fault," Zee explained.

"It was my decision," his companion argued. "I'm sorry, Master."

But the older Jedi did not seem perturbed by this revelation.

"Imagine our surprise," Knight Ossus mused, "when a heavy knapsack came plummeting down out of the mists overhead. I was so taken aback I nearly forgot to catch it."

"He made recompense for his lack of focus by carrying it the rest of the way up," Qui-Gon informed them. "If you would care to step next door, we can enjoy the benefits of _not_ having lost our provisions."

Grinning hugely now, the young Jedi followed their teachers out the flap of their thermal shelter and through the closure of the other one, erected just a meter away. The night air clawed at the small procession as it slipped across the tiny space, buffeting the flexible walls of the tent with angry hands as they sealed the panel behind them.

* * *

There was barely room for two – much less four - inside the cramped dome, so they made do as best they could, the apprentices settled toboggan-style in front of their respective masters, food distributed carefully so as not to burn jutting knees and hands made clumsy by numbing cold. Triple insulated or not, the shelter did not entirely blunt the cold's edge – icy wind tore at the seams of their refuge, seeped through the frigid rock below them. Simple body heat seemed preferable to leg room in such conditions; they ate their pre-fab rations in relative comfort, relieved to simply be out of the elements.

When they had finished their shared repast, Feemor Ossus collected the containers and crushed them together in his broad hands. "It's well below freezing already," he said, grimly. "I don't think we ought to risk unsealing this shelter."

"We can fit," Qui-Gon agreed, glancing at the flexible ceiling stretched taut above his head. "Barely."

With two sleeping packets left inside the other shelter, this meant some very close bonding. "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?" Obi-Wan groused.

Knight Ossus chortled softly. "I've done my time," he informed Qui-Gon's current apprentice. "It's your turn." Then, as an aside to Zee, "Remind me to tell you about the mission to Hoth someday. What a debacle!"

Padawan Minou seemed content enough to be squashed against Feemor's chest, zipped securely into a single heat-preserving roll. Soon enough his signature purring filled the dim space. Qui-Gon waved the glow-lamp off, closing them in heavy blackness.

"Ow! Master, your _elbow –"_

"_-_Hold still, Obi-Wan, you are not helping matters."

"I'm trying –"

"There is no try, young one."

"Oof! You did this _on purpose, _Master. I sense your maleficent intentions."

A dark chuckle. "You've no opportunity to _ignore my wisdom_ like this, now do you, Padawan mine?"

A strangled yelp and then silence. "Ow. _No, _Master."

"Well, then." Qui-Gon smiled in the pitch dark. "Consider this fit penance for your cheekiness. We can only hope you will absorb some insight via osmosis." He managed to tug the pouch's fastening closed at long last. "Now relax."

The Force shimmered with Feemor Ossus' amusement for a long while after both padawans had finally drifted off. "You are more ruthless than ever, Qui-Gon."

The tall man cast his mind back over the long years. "Some skills are honed with time, Feemor. Good night."

* * *

Well before dawn, Qui-Gon was rudely awakened by a sharp jab to his ribs.

"_Obi-Wan,"_ he grunted.

"I need to go out," his apprentice grumbled.

In the middle of the night? In such temperatures? "No, you do not."

An exasperated sigh. "I'm sorry, Master, but it's time to dig a hole."

Oh. "I think this would be a suitable occasion to exercise control over involuntary functions."

Another inadvertent jab. "You _forbade_ me to do any such thing, Master."

Qui-Gon shifted his weight testily and tightened his grip, wrapping his impertinent apprentice in a firm bear-hug. "Then I suggest you ignore my wisdom," he growled, determinedly sinking back into slumber.

* * *

When the rising sun had warmed their stark world enough to make opening the shelter feasible, Obi-Wan darted out like a bounder with a wild akk on its tail and promptly disappeared behind the cover of some nearby boulders.

Zee Minou arched luxuriantly, stretching cramped limbs. He smoothed back his head fur with both hands and stood at attention beside Feemor Ossus, whose long exhalation traced a white and sinuous trail in the icy air as he gazed up at the last rise above them. "The second summit is at the peak, there," he said, pointing to an impossible snow-capped pinnacle. "But I don't think we can spend the night at that altitude. I'll have the pilot pick us up when we reach the top – before nightfall, this time."

His apprentice's gimlet eyes peered up, and up, all the way to their lofty destination. "It's frozen over," he growled, ears flattening.

"You won't slip this time," his mentor assured him. "I'm sending you up with Master Jinn."

If possible, Zee looked even more intimidated by this prospect than that of scaling the sheer cliff-face single-handedly. "Oh," he gulped, staring wide-eyed at Qui-Gon, his hands clutching together inside his wide cloak sleeves.

Obi-Wan chose this moment to sally forth from his retreat, tugging his own cloak tightly about slim shoulders. "If our ambition is to reach the top," he remarked, "we had better get going."

"True." Qui-Gon nodded. "You will accompany Feemor today. I will take Zee."

"I don't bite," the other Knight promised.

"Yes, Master Ossus." Obi-Wan covered his confusion with a polite bow.

* * *

"So. Qui-Gon tells me he met you in the clan playroom one fateful day, during snack-time. Is it true he almost took a muja-fruit in the back of the head, and you didn't issue any warning?"

The cliff-face was slick with thawing ice, their fingers churning the melting crystals into hardened dirt beneath, stirring up a muddy slush. Obi-Wan gritted his teeth and retracted his cable another half-meter, wedging both boots into a half-crevice and straining upward. The climb might as well be a brutal training exercise in the Temple, a cunningly contrived test in the ever-evolving obstacle course hall.

"He… didn't need a warning," he grunted, fingers of one hand searching for a ledge beneath the sludge and grit to his right. "Besides, the projectile was intended for me." He smirked, remembering. "You can be sure the culprit was suitably mortified."

Just below him, Feemor Ossus found a handhold and surged up another arm's length. "I confess I was worried; after Xanatos, I thought Qui-Gon might never teach again... and that if he tried, it would end in disaster."

They crawled upward, painstakingly. "We haven't ended in disaster yet," Obi-Wan pointed out.

"No," his much older companion chuckled. "You two seem to have found a dynamic balance – made it into a kind of game. There's method to the madness, I can see that."

The padawan frowned over this for a moment, but Knight Ossus' Force signature was so clear and uncomplicated that he decided it was intended to convey admiration rather than censure. However, he would rather not be the one at the receiving end of a grilling. "What about you, Master Ossus? He never told me about you before… and you seem almost the same age."

This last incredulous statement provoked another chuckle. "I'm nearly as decrepit as he? Ha. Well, it's true. I lost my first master when I was a few years shy of Knighthood. Qui-Gon was like a brother to me – he took me under his wing until I was ready. My gratitude can never be expressed."

Obi-Wan curled his fingers round a jutting stone protuberance and hauled himself upward, reeling in his cable. Closer, closer. "I have a friend - his name is Feld Spruu. I suppose, if anything happened…" But here the theoretical speculation came to an abrupt halt. He swallowed. And focused on the perilous climb instead.

"You see what I mean, then," Feemor murmured. "Watch your right foot."

The young Jedi shifted his weight and paused, catching his breath. "I was suspicious of you at first," he confessed, on impulse. "I'm truly sorry."

"No offense taken," the older man assured him. "After all, any devoted student of the notorious Master Jinn naturally merits some intense scrutiny, wouldn't you agree?"

They shared a good laugh over that one.

* * *

They clambered over the final ridge, breathless and begrimed with mud and smeared green lichen stains, only to discover that Qui-Gon and Zee had easily won the race.

"Master Jinn carried me when I grew tired!" the Zygerrian mewled, bounding forward to greet his teacher.

"Master!" Obi-Wan shot a disapproving glare at his own mentor.

"Zee is not my padawan; I am entitled to spoil him at will."

The young Jedi huffed and found a seat upon a flat boulder. "Master Ossus did not spoil _me," _he griped.

Qui-Gon raised a brow. "Nobody in his right mind would spoil _you,_ my bratling. There is such a thing as putting flame to kindling. Feemor is far too wise for such folly."

"Ha." Obi-Wan snorted his dark amusement, and massaged his scraped knee, silently bemoaning the torn and filthy state of his trousers and tunics.

The tall Jedi inhaled deeply, a beatific smile upon his face. "Ah, the wonders of the Living Force."

His padawan flicked a clot of mud off his boot with a stick and made a very unfavorable examination of his dirt and blood-crusted fingernails "Yes, Master."

"Here comes the ship," Feemor Ossus declared. "Perfect timing."

* * *

As it turned out, the two masters blithely opted to cloister themselves inside the cockpit, leaving their disgruntled apprentices with stern instructions to keep each other company in the passenger hold, preferably meditating.

Zee Minou fidgeted with the crash restraints. "Can I ask you something?"

Obi-Wan looked up. "Yes."

"Is _some_ of it true? What they say about Master Jinn, I mean?

His companion frowned. "Well. Some of it. Probably." A small shrug. "Why?"

The young Zygerrian flashed his alarming smile. "He's a good master. I can tell."

"I'm sure Master Ossus will be a fine teacher, as well."

Zee's fingers curled together. "What if he asks me what I learned on this trip and I don't have a good answer? What _were_ we to learn? Do you know _why_ we had to come here?"

The older boy smiled, gently. "Perhaps it was simply to get some fresh air and meet new people?"

But Zee was ill-satisfied with this flippant reply. "I can't say that to my master! I would get in trouble."

Obi-Wan help up his hands. "That's nothing to be afraid of."

The smaller padawan pulled his knees up to his chest, perching elegantly on the inset bunk's edge. "When you said it was complicated… that you didn't mind… what did you mean?"

"Oh." Obi-Wan ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, heat rising to his face. "Well, ah, it's complicated." He met his companion's earnest gaze, and melted a bit. Fine. But it _was _infernally awkward to discuss such things. He sighed. "I meant that I don't mind being disciplined, because… because I trust my master. Because truly it's no different than receiving praise. Both serve the same purpose, and ultimately they mean the same thing. Do you understand?"

Zee pondered his words gravely. "Maybe. But you _never_ get angry at one another, ever?"

A disarming grin. "I didn't say that. I have an abominably quick temper …" Beat. "And Master Jinn could try the patience of a saint. You do the math."

This earned him a doubtful glance. "Zygerrians have much worse tempers than humans," Zee asserted.

"Then you had better practice some abject apologies. Words of remorse don't do any harm, in my experience."

"Oh." The younger boy uncurled and sprawled out on his back. "Thank you - I think I feel better now. I think I can be a padawan after all."

* * *

They parted ways at a hub space station just outside the Inner Rim.

"Well, what do you think?" Qui-Gon inquired when the shuttle bearing Feemor Ossus and his new apprentice had dwindled into the starfield beyond.

Obi-Wan looked longingly at the bustling concourse behind them. "I think a cup of sweet ha'chi would be welcome." The vendor's hovercart idled past them, emitting a tantalizing aroma.

Qui-Gon quirked a repressive brow at him, but led the way across the pedestrian plaza at a quick pace. "I meant about Feemor and his new padawan."

"Oh. It was an honor to meet them. I'm glad we had a chance."

The Jedi master ordered two enormous servings of the spice-laden sweet beverage, to the unbridled delight of his charge.

"Feemor was charmed by you. Though I think he privately suspects me of sparing the rod somewhat."

His padawan wisely refrained from comment, savoring the first seductive taste of ha'chi. "Master," he ventured, by way of changing the subject, "Why _did_ we undertake that exercise?"

They strolled toward the terminal where their own Republic courier vessel was due to arrive within the hour. "Why? For you and Zee, simply a chance to get some fresh air and meet new people."

"Oh. Could we have not done that somewhere more civilized?"

"We spend all our days at diplomatic affairs and spaceports, Padawan. I am not about to squander an opportunity to reconnect with the Living Force. Besides, in the wilderness there are no distractions."

"Yes, Master." There was little point in pursuing this particular argument; Obi-Wan simply resolved never to subject any apprentice of his own to such inane compulsions. "But then…"

"Sometimes the lesson is for the master and not the padawan, Obi-Wan. Feemor has recently taken on a new student. As you may have noticed, Zee has a very high-strung temperament."

"Yes, I noticed. But he'll learn. I have a good feeling about him."

Qui-Gon smiled softly. "As do I. Feemor's first apprentice was a very mellow character, and so he was naturally somewhat concerned about his ability to handle a so-called _problem child. _I was more than happy to oblige him when he asked if we might spend a day or two together– so he might learn how it is done."

Obi-Wan choked on his next swallow.

"Easy, young one." The Jedi master pounded him on the back. "You are difficult enough to train without adding spontaneous asphyxiation to the list of challenges."

"Yes, Master," his unfortunate protégé gasped.

"And something tells me you had words of wisdom to offer Zee Minou as well, am I not right?"

Obi-Wan drew himself up, standing upon dignity. "Perhaps."

"You see? Time well spent."

"Yes, Master."

They walked onward side by side.


	12. Chapter 12

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Spring Fever**

Obi-Wan's mouth hung agape, his blue eyes wide with an inexpressible horror.

"Is there a problem, Padawan?"

When the young Jedi had recovered his composure sufficiently to trot behind his master's imposing figure as they wove their way through the milling crowds in the plaza, he spluttered out the obvious protestation. "I – I _can't_ do that, Master! That's …ridiculous!"

Qui-Gon Jinn continued placidly on his way, taking the ceremonial stairwell three steps at a time. "I will be the judge of that. And I am confident in your ability to carry out this assignment with the grace and dignity befitting a Jedi in training."

His apprentice nearly choked on his outrage, bounding up the stairs behind the tall man. "If it's so _important_ to the mission, then why don't you participate in my stead?" he demanded, before natural prudence could rein in his tongue.

The Jedi master abruptly halted on the twenty-third step, suddenly facing his wayward charge with pursed lips and raised brows. "Have you forgotten the oath you took before the entire Jedi Council? I believe you swore to honor, attend, and _obey."_

Equally appalled by the task set before him and his own behavior, Obi-Wan came to a stop on the twenty-second step and cast his gaze down at his teacher's supple nerf-hide boots. "Yes, Master," he managed to rasp out.

Satisfied that he had quashed any incipient sedition, Qui-Gon resumed his ascent at a sedate pace. "Good. You are a very frolicsome fellow, Obi-Wan. I am sure you will do quite well during the festivities this evening."

His student privately harbored a very, very bad feeling about this proposed escapade – but what could he – a mere padawan - say to save himself from the gaping maw of cruel destiny? "Yes, Master," he muttered darkly, as they passed beneath the colonnaded portico and into the gubernatorial palace's gilded opulence.

* * *

"Of course, Master Jedi, there is no way to ascertain whether this anonymous tip is reliable; but given the severity of the threat to planetary security, I dare not investigate further without taking precautionary measures."

Qui-Gon bowed politely to the Chief of of Security. "I will accompany the Governor to the Festival tonight."

A small frown flitted over the grizzle-haired man's worn features. "Your presence might be provocative; the isolationist party is adamantly opposed to extra-planetary interference, particularly Republic peace-keepers. Are sure this is a wise move?"

The Jedi master nodded. "I think it safer to draw the attack while I am here, and the avenues of escape well-patrolled, than to defer the crisis to another time when the assassins may have better opportunity to execute their plan without interference."

"Huh," the burdened officer replied, fingering the butt of his blaster pistol thoughtfully. "Bait, eh?"

Qui-Gon offered the man a wry smile. "What better way to make their point than to attempt a hit in the presence of a Jedi, at a public event of grave traditional significance? It would make their point in a most dramatic fashion."

The captain of the gubernatorial guard had to admit this was logical. He jutted his chin at the tall man's apprentice, standing a respectful pace behind his mentor. "What about the kid? I don't like having any minors up here when there's a probability of random violence."

Obi-Wan maintained his studied calm. _The kid. _He was acutely aware of the recently constructed saber's subtle weight upon his belt, the smoothness of the weapons' hilt resting lightly against his thigh. He kept his face impassive, his fingers threaded together inside his cloak sleeves. But if Qui-Gon noticed his Jedi imperturbability, he gave no discernible sign.

"My padawan will participate in the rites, as a gesture of the Republic's goodwill toward your people, and of respect for your planet's self-sovereignty and native customs."

_Oh._ Well, that made the whole affair sound a trifle more appealing. But still.

The tall man's eyes flicked sideways to meet his apprentice's upturned gaze, and then returned to his interlocutor. "I share your concern."

The young Jedi exhaled slowly, mouth twisting despite his resolve not to display any emotion. The security officer bobbed his head in relief. "Good move, both ways. My personal thanks for your assistance, Master Jinn."

"We come to serve."

* * *

One of the three full moons winked down upon the proceedings, peering in through the arched turret window with a broadly smiling face.

"There you are: the very picture of a solstice reveler."

Obi-Wan was not in an agreeable mood. "It is _equinox, _not solstice. And I am the very picture of fatuous idiocy, Master. "

Qui-Gon Jinn tried unsuccessfully to suppress a chuckle. "Would you prefer the customary garb of an unbetrothed male your age?"

His apprentice picked peevishly at the embroidered hem of the festival garment, a short linen tunic falling to mid-thigh and leaving both arms bare. It was cinched about his waist with a delicate golden cord, replete with tassels. "Which is?"

"Nothing."

"I'm taking my 'saber," the padawan declared, jaw hardening into a stubborn line. Then, in a perturbed squeak, " - I'm _betrothed?"_

Now the tall man's lurking smile widened into a sunny grin. "From a certain point of view, " he replied, tweaking the boy's short learner's braid. "You are already committed to the Order, so I thought it fitting."

"Oh. Fine." Obi-Wan conceded the point without his usual grace, attaching his weapon to the flimsy belt of twisted silk. "I still don't see why they need my help for their blasted fertility rites."

"You _are_ acting as a goodwill ambassador, Obi-Wan. I strongly advise you to dredge up some goodwill for the occasion." A stern look. "Unless some solitary meditation on respect for exoteric cultural practices is in order?"

A deep breath. "No, Master."

"Good. And you will not require those boots – the Gathering is undertaken barefoot, at the dictate of tradition."

Obi-Wan's expression could only be described as mutinous. "Far be it from us to violate the dictates of _tradition, _ Master."

"I do not need your irony, young one. Now: let us be on our way. I am expected to accompany the Governor's retinue, and you have some frolicking to do."

* * *

The Gatherers poured forth from the city's ceremonial gates, running together downhill to the forest's hem, trickling rills of youth joining and parting, all garbed in virginal white beneath the admiring stare of three wide-eyed moons. Obi-Wan slipped in among the throng, his perpetually aloof and jaded inner commentator already hard at work on this contrived spectacle.

Errant on a communal quest, padding along the groomed lawns beneath hoary trees and ornamental bushes planted generations ago, the search parties spread out, flitting form moonlit grotto to shaded streamlet's vale. Obi-Wan snorted at the mincing gait of several gauze-bedecked girls on his right and veered off toward an unremarkable clearing, one graced neither by feathery silver illumination nor beckoning architecture of leaf and shadow.

For stars' sake, all flowers cared for was a bit of sunlight and good drainage. He wasn't Qui-Gon Jinn's padawan for nothing – he knew enough of the Living Force to know that life was frank about its needs and cared nothing for aesthetics, as witnessed by the very existence of womprats and the Hygerrian stink-vine. At the summit of the gentle swell, he found himself knee-deep in some staid native varietal, a plant with copious foliage and pert blossoms now furled tightly in their buds. It occurred to him that this might in fact be technically classified as a _weed, _but objective analysis of his earlier promise revealed that he had only agreed to gather _flowers,_ and these were indeed such.

He Force-decapitated a wide swath of them and swept their pliant corpses into the flimsy basket so obligingly provided by the Master of Ceremonies. Duty thus fulfilled with ruthless efficiency, and the terms of his honor-pledge to his master satisfied, he tramped back toward the main road by the most direct route, leaving his agemates to flounder in the throes of picturesque delusion. A distinct sense of _conspiracy_ was prickling at the nape of his neck, and the part of him that wasn't concerned with his present ritual observance – roughly ninety-nine percent of his psyche – felt certain that the dreaded assassination attempt was indeed scheduled for this very night. He quickened his pace, slipping off the groomed paths and bearing in a straight line for the nearest city gate. A quick Presentation of Nature's Bounty at the ceremonial altar, and he could don his proper robe again and join Qui-Gon in his capacity as personal body-guard to the planetary ruler.

Spirits buoyed by this happy thought, he pressed onward, leaping light-footed along a series of fallen logs – and then froze, Force-enhanced senses catching the faint ephemera of a whispered conversation in the bracken below. He dropped to his belly upon the moss-grimed trunk and listened.

"That's it – sniper's in position behind the cupola. Breek, you got the thermals ready? Right. Patch and Flimm- you take the main gate. Detonate on my signal. Once the Gov's security starts moving him toward the palace, he takes a shot and we all rendezvous back here. Anyone who doesn't make it gets left behind."

* * *

Qui-Gon Jinn stood at attention, hands folded behind his back, his impressive height affording him a good view of the ceremonies over the heads of the planetary governor and his cabinet. Colorful pavilions had been erected upon the palace lawns, each sheltering a separate minister or cleric – one for the blessing of couples, one for the blessing of children, one for the blessing of livestock and domestic animals, one for the blessing of seeds and bulbs. Citizens clustered thickly beneath the tents, long queues snaking out from each site, the voices of the enormous civic choir belting out some richly textured arrangement of an old folk hymn. He spotted the pyrotechnic experts assembling the fireworks display to be launched over the courtyard later.

The Force shimmered faintly with warning of threat to come, a latent danger still lurking over the horizon of time and space, indistinct. He remained patient, biding his time, his focus spread like a net over the multitudes below, the press of bodies around the Governor.

"The first Gatherers should be returning soon," the planetary leader murmured, jeweled hand grasping his ceremonial staff of office. His gaze traveled across the crowded grounds, out the open main gates, to the dark fringe of the royal forest. "I wanted to mention, Master Jedi, how gracious it is of your Order to send a delegate to participate in our solemn rites."

Qui-Gon offered a small bow of acknowledgment, reflecting humorously upon said delegate's decidedly ungracious attitude toward the whole affair – and then froze.

A sharp, insistent prodding at his awareness; across his Force bond with Obi-Wan a bright image flared, impressed clearly upon his imagination by a strong young will, laced with urgency. The tall man glanced over his shoulder, at the small domed vault atop the palace's disused watchtower. His eyes narrowed. There might be _just_ sufficient space for a crouching man to conceal himself, and the location provided a perilously clear view of the ceremonial platform.

He sent an equally vibrant image of _flowers_ in a basket to his badly distracted Padawan, and was rebuffed with that of a deafening explosion, confetti trails of shrapnel and grit spiraling in the smoke-clogged air.

Trust was essential between master and student. "Excuse me," he murmured to the captain of the guard. "I shall return in a moment."

He slipped away, a fluid shadow melting into the regal dusk beneath the palace walls.

* * *

The men rose, and picked their way through the brambles and brush, heading toward the moon-silvered lawns between forest and the city's enclosure. Obi-Wan tossed the absurd basket and its wilting contents aside, hand closing upon his weapon's hilt instead, and sprang forward without hesitation. The brigandly foursome could not be allowed to set off explosives in the palace grounds – intended as distractions or not, the bombs would doubtlessly take lives and cause widespread mayhem.

He leapt down from the rotting log, landing in a half-crouch before the villains, 'saber blade snapping into brilliant blue life. "In the name of the Galactic Republic, you are under arrest," he growled, brandishing the sapphire beam in an authoritative arc.

The foremost malefactor stopped dead in his tracks, the blue 'saber blade reflected in wide eyes. But apparently the slight stature and humiliatingly scant apparel of his would-be adversary overcame the initial surprise, for he promptly burst into derisive laughter.

"Ha haa! Talk to us when your voice changes!" he barked. His three companions leveled blasters at the slim figure blocking their path.

Obi-Wan scowled. What sort of insensate dolts _were_ these ruffians? "Drop your weapons," he commanded, pitching his voice a bit lower, just in case.

"We're not messing with you, kid." The one called Breek snarled firing a warning shot into the undergrowth. "Move it, or you won't make it to your next life-day."

Breek's blaster flew from his grip and landed in the padawan's outstretched hand.

"Chisszk! He's the real thing- get him!"

Bolts streaked toward their target at point blank range; Obi-Wan moved on instinct deflecting the blasts with a sure hand. Red energy packets rebounded into trees, into the darkened canopy above. Sparks showered down around them, men cursed and scrambled for cover.

One of them made a break for it, a small case clutched in his hand; the young Jedi was after him like a shot, dragging his 'saber through the trunk of a massive tree. The plasma blade carved through the hardwood like soft butter; a wild push of the Force sent the ponderous trunk hurtling across the escapee's path, crashing thunderously to the forest floor.

"_Chiissk!"_ Breek cowered, dropping his burden and scurrying into the shadows like a rodent fleeing a diving thranctill.

Obi-Wan grabbed the explosives and whirled to face the fearful conspirators, but they had taken off at a flat run in four different directions, weaving among the trees and roots at a breakneck pace. Panting, he deactivated his weapon and turned back to the city, sprinting over the moonlit grass as the first fireworks spilt the evening sky.

* * *

The security officers bound the sniper's hands in energy cuffs and took him into custody amid curses and shouts of defiance.

"I can't thank you enough," the captain confided in Qui-Gon Jinn. "How you knew he was up there is beyond me."

"The Force moves in mysterious ways. If you will excuse me?"

He pushed past the repulsorcraft paddy wagon and threaded though the celebratory throng, fireworks shaking the skies overhead as the Governor performed the necessary rites over the Gatherer's offerings. Youths and maidens poured gaily through the open gates, in cheerful clusters of two and three. He slipped past the next group to enter, striding across the open land beyond the city walls – until –

"Master!" Obi-Wan dashed up to him at a run, practically skidding to a halt. "Did you find him? Did you stop him?"

Hands braced on the boy's shoulders, he smiled down. "Yes. The assassination has been thwarted."

Obi-Wan pointed back to the royal forest. "He had four accomplices. They were going to set off explosives inside the courtyard to cover the shot and divert attention to the emergency response– They got away, I'm sorry master, I couldn't catch them all –"

"Padawan." the tall man stemmed the tide with a calming wave of the Force. "The palace security force will patrol the grounds. There is little more we can do now, and the Governor is safe for the night."

His apprentice nodded, breath evening out, the rolling drum of his thoughts settling into a less frantic pattern.

"What is this?" Qui-Gon inquired, crouching down to examine the reinforced plastoid case in the boy's hand.

"Thermal detonators."

The Jedi master rolled back on his heels, regarding his protégé with laughing eyes. The festival garment was torn, begrimed with moss and dirt, and singed darkly where sparks had fallen. The boy's legs from knee downward were covered in livid red welts, an allergic reaction of some kind. And he carried not a basket of sweet spring blossoms, but a cluster of industrial-grade explosives. The chuckle that welled up from deep inside the tall man's chest elicited a small frown.

"Master…"

"I am sorry, young one." Qui-Gon stood, mirth still tugging at his lips. "Your idea of _frolicking_ is very different from mine. And it looks as though you went looking for flowers in a patch of poison okkar."

"I try, Master," Obi-Wan muttered.

"No to worry – it seems we sent the right man for the job, after all. Come along."

They walked back to the city together, while the three startled moons shone merrily in heaven's festival dome.


	13. Chapter 13

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Centripetal Force**

An iron fist closed viselike about his viscera and squeezed, twisting cruelly until he writhed, teeth gritted against the welling moans, spine curling forward, forward, like one of those little armored bugs they had seen on Belsuu, the little –

-he was vomiting again, except there wasn't anything left and surely he was going to heave his own guts up, up and out his throat where they would spatter all over the tiled floor, so uncivilized, blood and squirming worms of intenstine and bile and – he wrethched at the mere thought, tears running down his face because that was all there was left to wring out of him, and blackness swirled at the edges of vision, oh…

"Breathe," a deep voice said. "Breathe."

Yes. Yes. Breathe. Obi-Wan sucked in a scraggly hiss of sweet air between clenched jaws, another through his nose, another. The blackness receded. The fist loosened its grip on his interior, but he knew it would be back.

"Oxygen, Bant," another voice ordered – older, reedier.

It was so good, so blessedly delicious _not_ to be in the clutches of that squeezing vise. He lay still, feeling the cold sweat dry on his skin, the salty itchiness of it making his flesh prickle, his muscles shake. He was wobbling everywhere, shuddering, frothing like the pool beneath the arboretum waterfall, foaming and splashing and _churning – _ oh no, no no no –

"Easy. Easy. Bant, just a moment – "

The clamping hand returned, seizing his solar plexus, turning his lungs inside out, pushing them up and out of his body, and then fire erupted lower, in his bowels, and he was _disgorged, _callously emptied like a used water-skin, a muja-fruit rind squeezed dry of its soft pulp. This time there was burning moisture running down his legs, disgusting, probably his blood and guts, his internal organs turned to slime and oozing outward… the most _filthy, uncivilized_ death imaginable, so lacking in Jedi dignity and poise, so _pathetic –_

"Master! Master…"

"I'm here." This was Qui-Gon Jinn, sounding somehow less serene than normal.

"I'm sorry, Master." He tried to keep the tall man's face in focus, but the whole room spun maddeningly every time he cracked open his swollen eyes, so he left them shut and clawed for the Jedi Master's arms instead. Strong hands closed gently about his wrists.

"Relax."

"But I'm sorry –" He hadn't even done anything rash and stupid this time – he hadn't lost his focus, disobeyed, gotten ahead of himself, been too ambitions, arrogant, distracted by emotion, nothing wrong. But he had made plenty of mistakes before and he knew, deep deep down in the core of him, that _failure_ was his destiny and that he would never be the Jedi he yearned to be and that he was too weak and his heart too treacherous and he would disappoint Qui-Gon who believed in him and…

It made him cry. He really was terribly sorry.

And that made him sorrier yet, because a Jedi should not succumb to such negative emotions. He flailed, seeking his stoic mask, but it eluded him and he settled for hiding his face in the pillow- except hands were pulling him back around, forcing him to display his shame to the whole world, and then the salty-tangy scent of Bant was pushing something against his face, _into his nostrils –_

Raw instinct kicked in. He bucked like a wild beast, the Force shattering into kaleidoscopic fury as he resisted being smothered - he would die _fighting,_ _going up in a blaze-_

"Padawan!"

The whiplash crack of authority, sound and thought at once, brought him jolting back into his body, flat on his back, eyes wide and pinned by the brilliant spears of overhead light, surrounded by bobbing shadows. An invisible pressure held him in place, and when the initial shock subsided, a sickening humiliation flooded in. He felt the heat in his face redoubled, tripled, a melting flush of regret.

"Relax. You are in good hands. Reach for the Force. Find it."

The Force. Where was it? Lying scattered about the margins of the world, where his panic had broken it to bits and flung it to far extremes. Oh dear… but it coalesced, lovely, forgiving, luminous, and trickled back in. He was so empty that it filled him like a dried gourd, pouring into all the ragged spaces beneath his ribs and in his belly, soothing, calm…

"Good boy. That's it. Breathe."

Inhale. The thin line draped across his face was spurting a cool stream of … sweetness, life.. into his nose, down his throat. Release. Accept. Exhale. Lull between. _Master?_

"Breathe. Good. I'm here."

Inhale, deeper. The Force. It wrapped about him, gently sundering self from pain. Oh. _Oh._ More squeezing agony surfaced from the depths, but that was happening _there, _in the body, not _here, _in the Force. Twisting, purging, pain pain pain… accept. The Force moved in harmony with the pain, affirming it: this is life cleansing itself, be patient, be still. Oh. Exhale – a bit unsteady, it hurt ithurts, hurtshurtshurts…_oh. _ Relief.

Inhale. Back to center. Always back to center. _Master._

"Good." Hand on face, hand on hair. Oh. He was slowly parting from consciousness. Was that good too? Or was that bad?

Bant's oceanic scent lingered nearby. The other person was Ben To Li. Clarity came as he drifted, halfway between here and the Force. _Master?_

_Stay there. Stay._

Dimly, he registered hands cleaning him up, the scratch of fresh cloth against skin, his slack limbs shifted, moved about without his assistance. Thermal blankets heaped atop him, something sharp run into the crook of his arm, the relentless, merciless cramps building again, harder, harder, going to be sick, oh… hands on face. Hands on chest, on belly. Ben To, Qui-Gon: both winnowing self from pain, burrowing beneath tenuous, yielding mental shields, pressing him down deep into Light, away from suffering.

The last taut mooring snapped, and he gladly drifted away.

* * *

A long, long time later, he floated back up from the oceanic abyss, and watched the world pass over the surface of the Force, like inverted cloud images in undulating water. Beneath the thing film of appearance, luminance swelled, serene. He was entranced by the hypnotic puzzle of colors and forms, sensation and substance. White fingers – his?- picked at the hem of a soft blanket. It's weave was like a braid, three strands twining in orderly pattern, except every third pass they would veer sideways, pick up the row above, while the corresponding thread above dove back down to join the lower cord. It was _complicated._ He frowned over it, wondering whether any droid ever programmed could plumb the complexity of this knot, this infinite braiding of braids, until it made his own brain dizzy and he closed his eyes.

There was also a door set in a wall – far, far away, a hyperspace jump across the entire room. It sat there, partially open, the panel not compressed into its pocket, allowing light and color and sound to seep through from the outside. And this was suddenly disturbing: for was this breach between dimensions, between the tidy categories of here and there, a salutary thing? Should not the door be _all the way_ open, or else firmly sealed? He felt a bit like that door himself, not sure whether he were open or closed, or where he began or ended. Confusing. More frowns. And around the edges of that uncomprehending scowl, discomfort prowled. Emptiness. Exhaustion.

The door decided to open all the way, startling him badly. His heart jumped against his ribs, and his teeth chattered. "Mm," he protested.

People came in. Hand on face again. Warmth. Thumbtip stroking cheekbone. _Master._

"How do you feel?" Qui-Gon's voice was pitched comfortably low.

"Ajar."

A brief flurry of amusement, little leaves of mirth skittering in an ephemeral wind. Qui-Gon sat down, close by. The spicy tang of cleansing liquid, the aftertaste of adrenaline in the Force. He had just come from the dojo, then.

"He feels like a _jar?"_ Bant's voice inquired, helplessly. Her muzzy silhouette drew nigh. "Morning, Obi. It's really good you're awake. You're doing much better."

He was? Then why was she mucking around with the scanners and the biomonitor, and poking and prodding him?

"Relax," Qui-Gon ordered. "Their Sith-damned poison is almost out of your system. We're past the worst."

They were? What had he done this time? It must have been bad. He remembered feeling sorry. "I'm sorry, Master." His voice croaked like a groggart, like those fat slimy ones they had seen on what-was-it, the planet with the horrid climate, the one in the Mid Rim… he couldn't place it. He squinted at the ceiling, projecting a mental star-map across the pale dome. Spots obligingly swam before his eyes, moving far too fast for him to identify.

"There's nothing for which to apologize," Qui-Gon soothed him, interrupting his dizzy contemplation of the heavens. "You were ambushed. I was not mindful of the Force's warnings, as I should have been."

"You must be more mindful of the future?" he asked, still certain that somewhere, somehow, he had made a terrible mistake.

"You made no mistake. You simply followed my ill-considered orders...and paid the price."

Had he _paid _ to be poisoned by his captors? That _had_ been stupid. He hoped he'd at least driven a hard bargain, haggled them down a bit...

Qui-Gon's hand squeezed his own, mooring his wandering wits back in the present. "I think you may have been the most troublesome prisoner the Yamax have ever held."

Fingers brushed his arm, cold on the exposed skin, sending a tiny wracking spasm down the goose-prickling flesh, one that reminded him he was chilled, so cold. "Turn th'heat up?" he requested, a drunken smile pulling at his lips. Qui-Gon and he amiably bickered over the therm regulator constantly, especially during space-flight. He might as well milk the advantage of pity, thus turning his relative vulnerability into a weapon.

"Of course," Bant assured him.

A smug smile up at Qui-Gon, redolent of victory.

Qui-Gon leaned in close while Bant's back was turned, understanding the joke, understanding that jokes eased the passage of harder truths, as he always did. "Brat," he growled. "And to think I worried myself over your recovery." Hand on hair. A burst of hot delicious air from the overhead vents as the cycling system responded to the adjustment. So good…

"I think the meds are making him a bit loofy," Bant decided, globular eyes staring down at him with a glazed compassion. "Is that normal, Master Li?"

Oh. So the senior healer was here too. Nobody had bothered to inform him, Obi-Wan mentally groused. Another ambush. He was making a bad habit of this.

"Well, it's idiosyncratic, certainly. But he needs them to keep the withdrawal symptoms suppressed. Once he's purged the last of the nerve toxins and inhibitors, we'll pull him off everything and let the fever break naturally."

"And release you to quarters, and Master Jinn's supervision," Bant added addressing him soothingly.

Oh blessed dark humor… he was helpless to resist. "Back to _normal_ suffering, then."

There was an infinitesimal tug on his braid. He lifted weary fingers to touch it and was dismayed to find its length frazzled and matted, gritty with dried sweat and …

Qui-Gon plucked the filthy plait from his hand and tucked it behind his ear. "We'll see to that later," he promised. "Focus on the here and now. You have resting to do."

Difficult, with that aching lump stuck in his maw. "Master." His hand caught at a cream tunic sleeve, tugged, wrapping the rough-woven cloth about his fingers, preventing the tall man's retreat. "I'm sorry, Master, I'm sorry –"

Hands on face. Sweep of hair – tickling his nose. Lips pressed against forehead. "You are more than forgiven, Padawan. For your nonexistent failings."

Bant's round orb-like eyes were blinking slowly, an opalescent milk of Mon Cal emotion forming in their corners. She looked away when he made eye contact, and Master Li cleared his throat. Why was everyone so unaccountably maudlin? Qui-Gon had the good sense to clear the air and the room with a single burning glance at the spectators.

"You've made a scene, my young friend." he gently extricated his sleeve from his apprentice's grasp. "Much as I enjoy seeing you … ah, _loofy, _ you ought to sleep."

Oh. Sleep. The Force was coming to fetch him again, tugging at his eyelids much as he had pulled on Qui-Gon's sleeve, weighting him with irresistible languor. But he didn't want Qui-Gon to leave. "Master?"

Hand on hair. "Sleep, Obi-Wan."

He clung stubbornly to the only coherent thought in his mind. "My braid… later… can you weave it like the blanket?" Master student, the Force, the past, the future, the now, allies, enemies, capture, release, pain, healing, every thread bound together in gorgeous tapestry, on the flawless loom of fate.

"_My_ padawan wishes to flout the precepts concerning the eschewal of personal vanity?" Qui-Gon's eyes twinkled, and Obi-Wan had the distinct impression he was being teased, though he could see nothing funny about it.

His accusatory frown must have betrayed his mildly wounded feelings, for the Jedi master's face softened. "I can only pray that my skills are equal to such a task," he replied, in a more sober tone. "We'll see what we can do. Now sleep."

The Force agreed with Qui-Gon in this regard; caught between two such incontrovertible authorities, he had no recourse but obedience. Sleep claimed him, and he did not object.

* * *

He slept for much, much longer than he had intended, a day and a half, straight through the peaking fever and its aftermath, not waking until sheer gnawing hunger – real appetite, stirring in his cavernously empty belly – wrenched him back to pedestrian awareness with its clamorous demands to be satisfied.

Bant was there. Had she ever left? "Oh, you're awake," she chirped delightedly, fussing all over him in a manner he would never countenance had there been other witnesses. "How do you feel? Do you need anything?"

"Food," he rasped. "Please."

He sat up, pleasantly lightheaded, and stretched until his yawn turned into a loudly vocalized moan, a release that spiraled down from body to soul, rending tenuous shields as it went, straight down to his core where the Force pooled and shimmered, placid beneath the ossifying stalactites of his own hard-won wisdom, the pillars of devotion and hard experience, glittering with _ilum_ crystals, weeping slow tears into the limpid pools below. Exhale.

Bant's touch brought him back from the center, to the outward, the mundane. Food. He ate like a starving man. "I'm famished," he explained, mortified by his lack of manners, too hungry to stop, too hungry to care that the repast was vile medical center fare, bland and textureless and aggressively nutritious. He collapsed against the pillows, plotting escape even before Ben To Li came in to assess him.

After the ritual humiliations, the senior healer stood and stroked his short silver-streaked beard. "I suppose you are pining to return to the residential levels, hm?"

_Home._ "Yes, Master Li…. I've been awake several minutes now and I'm nearing the edge of my tolerance." A grin, querulous at first, but gaining in power as the Force rushed in to fill the gaps in his psyche, as he sensed the approach of his foremost ally. "Or yours."

The healers' brows shot up.

The Force danced, impish. "Let us negotiate term of release now, thus sparing the Halls turmoil and strife that would be detrimental to your other patients." Eager, honest look, the one that swayed minds and won hearts, the one that made Garen Muln his willing conspirator, melted Bant to puddles, ruffled the implacable Jinn calm, overturned objections and protests everywhere he went.

"That doesn't work on me," was Ben To's gruff rejoinder.

"You'd best turn him over to me," Qui-Gon suggested, appearing in the doorway, blue eyes quietly celebratory. "The Yamax were almost relieved to be unburdened of him… draw your own conclusions."

The Temple's senior healer held out the datapad to the tall master, who deliberately placed his thumbprint next to the requisite forms. "Get dressed and we'll formalize the rescue in our own quarters," he instructed his student.

Five minutes later they were limping their way through the Temple's corridors; half an hour later they attained the refuge of their shared home, the shelter of familiar rooms; an hour later Obi-Wan was bathed and wrapped in Qui-Gon's battered but undeniably voluminous and soft duster; shortly thereafter they drank tea and watched the sunset, though they did not venture into the cold evening air upon the balcony.

"Before we proceed, let us see what can be done about this," Qui-Gon decided, carding fingers through the loose strands of the learner's braid. He divided the damp hair into three portions, smoothing them between sure fingers. "I am no adept of the weaver's art, you understand, Padawan."

He twisted them anew, teacher, student, the Force. "You will have to supply the other invisible strands yourself. Focus."

Upon thier origin and root, source and destination. Center.

Obi-Wan nodded his understanding, and let the Force gather them up with itself, deftly compacting them in a running knot, an infinite winding of its own, weaving ever inward to wisdom's unitary light. Qui-Gon worked silently, over, over, over, over, roles fluidly intertwining, pulled tight with each crossing. Teacher, student, the Force… here an enemy ambush crossing over _student. _ Now _searching_ crossing over ambush. _Student_ over search. _Finding_ over student. _Speaking_ over finding. _Student_ again. _Refusal_ over student. _Saber _over refusal. Pull tight, place bead. Again. Teacher, student, Force. Journey. Illness. Poison. Grief. Anger,. Release. Suffering. Release. Healing. Release. Emotion. Peace. Chaos. Harmony. Homecoming. Teacher again, student, the Force, Bind and tie off.

"Master?"

"Yes, Padawan."

"I… I wanted to be sorry, but … there really is no need?"

Qui-Gon held the tufted end of his handiwork between two fingers. "No. There is not. Unless you say it again, of course."

"I'm so- I mean, yes, Master."

"Better. Are you awake enough for a brief shared meditation?"

Obi-Wan reached up and reverently touched the braid, the fateful intersection of duty and narrative, the anchorline to his inmost foundation. Qui-Gon nudged them both into a deeper trance, into a moment of purest contemplation, but his padawan soon slumped sideways, too spent for such profundities. The tall man gathered the duster's worn folds about the boy's shoulders and welcomed the reassuring weight against his own side, and sat vigil for them both, content on this occasion to merely rest in the tranquility of their mutual center.


	14. Chapter 14

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Simple Pleasures**

"So, you can come?"

Garen's earnest anticipation admitted of only one answer: an affirmative. Obi-Wan smiled, confidence predicated on past occasions making him bold. "Of course. I'm sure it will be fine. When are you leaving?"

Bant nearly skipped in her delight. "There's an airbus departing from the south hangar bay at seventh hour. Anyone who's going needs to be on board before then, and checked out of Temple with the Docent on duty. Master Hiruu and Master Sai-Sho are chaperoning the junior padawans. I'm so excited you can come! It's my first time to the parade."

"See you soon, then." Obi-Wan bade them a fond farewell and sauntered off to his own quarters, glad that he was ahead in his studies and had performed exceptionally well in saber practice this afternoon, as well as gleaning praise from Qui-Gon early this morning for his insight during their customary post-prandial debate. Spirits effervescent, he bounded through the door and into the quiet apartment's common area, noting with pleasure that he had beaten his master home. On a happy impulse, he watered and tended to the Jedi master's burgeoning collection of small plant seedlings, and then prepared tea, carefully setting the pot and bowls out upon the room's low table. When he felt his mentor's approach, he settled himself respectfully to one side, kneeling with hands folded into sleeves in the universal gesture of patience.

Qui-Gon opened the door to the spectacle of immaculately tidy rooms, freshly brewed silpa tea and a respectfully bowed apprentice. The tall man surveyed the scene quietly for a moment, a tiny smile deepening the lines about his eyes. "You should know better than to attempt such blatant tactics upon a master diplomat."

The look of feigned innocence this evoked was only slightly marred by he impish glint in his padawan's eyes. "Master Seva says _a heart paralyzed by greed must be compelled from without, while a generous nature is moved freely from within."_

The Jedi master folded his lanky frame down beside the table and poured tea into two delicate bowls. "I may be moved freely from within to confiscate all your books of poetry and philosophy," he observed, slyly.

Obi-Wan's spine tautened into a plumb line, brows arching in mock outrage. "Spontaneous anti-intellectual violence is symptomatic of totalitarianism, Master."

Qui-Gon took an appreciative sip of his tea. "Never mind; I've decided I like the groveling, Obi-Wan. Pray continue."

His young companion reached an internal compromise by drinking from his own bowl, an exercise which shad the double benefit of vaguely suggesting deference while simultaneously keeping him quiet.

"So," the tall man re-entered negotiations a few moments later, "To what request have I hypothetically been softened enough to accede?"

A furtive sidelong glance, one of Obi-Wan's idiosyncratic gestures, one signifying wry self-appraisal antecedent to some daring ploy. "With your permission, Master, since I have completed my studies and other duties for the day, I should very much like to accompany the Senatorial barge on the Republic Day parade route this evening. There is a chaperoned group departing from the south hangar bay at seventh hour. Garen and Bant are going, and Reeft as well."

Qui-Gon studied his protégé closely, and then drew in a deep breath, centering himself in the Force's eddying currents, inviting a wisdom greater than his own to answer in his stead. "No," he replied, simply.

The padawan's face fell, though he swiftly regained his stoic composure, merely lowering his eyes and clasping hands together inside wide sleeves. "I – I am truly sorry of my actions offended you, Master. I did not intend any flattery or manipulation."

"No offense was taken. Thank you for the tea and the beautiful welcome. They were freely given and freely enjoyed."

Now Obi-Wan dared look upward at him, confusion supplanting mortification. "I did not meet your expectations today? Is there something I have neglected?"

The tall man looked him in the eye steadily. "This is not a punishment, young one. I am very pleased with your progress and conduct lately; I simply do not feel that participation in tonight's revelry is a good idea."

Having long since had the ubiquitous adolescent interjections _but_ and _why _ rigorously trained out of him, Obi-Wan fell back on his own personal default: "I don't understand."

"Do you need to?" A double edged question.

On a scale ranging from wounded petulance to spitfire defiance, his apprentice's response was decidedly in the latter end of the spectrum. " Yes."

"Then we shall make it the focus of our meditation this evening. Clear this up –we'll begin at seventh hour.." So saying, Qui-Gon rose and sallied into his own chamber to discard his cloak and boots, and give his unsettled student a graced moment to collect his thoughts and emotions.

There was always much to teach, and he believed in seizing the moment.

* * *

Shortly thereafter, at seventh hour precisely, he returned to the common area to find Obi-Wan waiting for him upon one of the room's worn meditation cushions, flaring resentment having already completed its inevitable pendulum swing into self-recrimination. He took up position opposite and glanced out the balcony window, where a single airbus could be seen curving round the Temple's eastern ramparts, headed south against the lurid backdrop of a late summer evening. The sky was still glowing with late-day radiance, solstice having passed not too long ago. Coruscant's air-traffic beyond was even more frenetic than normal, a promise of festivities to come.

He shut the blinds with a lick of his wrist and a nudge of the Force, wrapping them in a dim warmth. "You may speak."

The bottled accusation fizzled out under pressure. "You think I lack sufficient maturity and sound judgment."

Qui-Gon sighed. "I did not say that, nor is it true."

Stymied again, Obi-Wan lapsed into a momentary funk, then fired back with, "I still don't understand."

"Which is why we are here." The Jedi master waited for this to sink in. "Let me direct your examination of this problem, and then we will meditate upon it."

"Yes, Master."

Raising a brow at the unenthusiastic tone of this last response, he began with a simple question. "What is passion?"

"Desire for that which is not needful or good, or else desire for needful things in a manner or degree that exceeds reason."

This was one possible definition; they could use it as a launching point. "And how would you describe your desire to attend this event tonight?"

Another brief flare of _combativeness - _if not outright defiance - colored the Force between them like a brief firework display, but swiftly faded. Obi-Wan frowned, examining his motives minutely. "I … think it is moderate desire for a proper object," he decided, finally. "Truly, Master."

"And what proper object is that? Tell me."

The boy's fingers tensed and then spread out over his knees, deliberately unclenching. "Well, Garen and Bant and Reeft are attending together. I had hoped to spend some time with them…. I haven't seen much of them since – I mean because we are in the field so much. And friendship is needful and good, is it not?"

Qui-Gon nodded in assent. "Yes. Is this your only opportunity to court their company?"

"Um… no, Master."

What else?"

"And… there are fireworks and music and people celebrating. That is… without a mission to focus upon, I thought maybe…"

A gentle smile. "The Force will be saturated with any number of joyful feelings and emotions, and you would like to have a taste of that without the distraction of duty?"

Obi-Wan squirmed a little. "Is that bad? At the wedding on Phindar you said-"

"It is natural and harmless. But I am confident there will be other occasions to experience such things, as there have been in the past."

A somber nod.

"And, if I may hazard a guess, there will be abundant food and drink."

"I wasn't interested in the intoxicants, Master, and the chaperones wouldn't let us-"

Qui-Gon held up a hand, pacifically. "That is not a concern. Are you undernourished, Obi-Wan?"

Unable to resist temptation, the young Jedi smirked. "Perpetually."

"We could have the healers work up a nutrient supplement for you. Or add extra fava beans to your diet."

A grumbling sigh of resignation. "I have all the food I need here in the Temple."

"So where does that leave us, Padawan?"

Obi-Wan's natural insouciance threatened to usurp the reign of prudence, but he managed to wrestle the impulse under control. Almost. "Besides here in quarters, you mean?…" A deep inhalation. "There is nothing involved in tonight's outing that I do not already have or could not have in another context."

"Very good. So what have you truly lost by not attending?"

"Nothing," came the quiet and dutiful reply.

Qui-Gon watched his young companion shrewdly. "So what then is left, specific to this evening, that makes it so dear to your heart?"

The tell tale furrow appeared between Obi-Wan's brows. "The time and place and combination of different factors, I suppose. Just the individual circumstances, really."

"Friendship, celebration, and food are all goods in themselves, and worthy of moderate desire. But would you say it is necessary to have them in one specific circumstance or combination? Or is that a manner or degree of desire that exceeds the bounds of reason?"

Outmaneuvered, his apprentice merely offered him a rueful half-smile.

"Good." Qui-Gon replied, not unkindly. "This is not an obvious form of attachment, but one no less insidious. As Jedi, we must be detached even from the terms and conditions of our own pleasures, however legitimate or simple they might be. You are disappointed that I did not grant you permission to go tonight."

"Yes," Obi-Wan admitted, downcast.

"Then consider this a welcome opportunity to practice detachment. Let go of your anticipation and need. We will meditate on this together."

* * *

Rather than sinking into the Force himself, Qui-Gon hovered about the margins of his student's contemplation, standing sentinel over the delicate unfolding of wisdom like an attentive gardener over some tender shoot. _Detachment_ was among the most difficult of spiritual _kata_ to learn, to teach. The evening waned into night outside, and yet Obi-Wan remained wrapped in timeless light, seeking a center he found elusive and a submission he found burdensome. The boy would gladly suffer deprivations and dangers for the sake of peace or honor, but this – this was an exercise that cut subtly and deep, a knife's edge grazing the innermost heart. There were so few indulgences permitted in a Jedi's existence; it doubtless seemed a paltry and meaningless cruelty to deny the rare occasion of levity that presented itself, a stricture so tight that it threatened to strangle joy at its roots. Early in the meditation, the tall man caught the glistening trail of a single tear as it escaped and slid down to bury itself in a soft tunic collar; shortly thereafter a flood of negative emotion was released into the Force.

So small a thing to provoke such a surfeit of struggle – a sign that he had judged rightly the importance and timeliness of this ascetical lesson.

At long last, as the artificial landscape outside was sequestered in darkness, Obi-Wan surfaced from his lengthy trance on a slow exhalation, blinking several times in the gloom of their quarters before seeming to recollect himself. "Master?"

""Very good. Now where do we stand?"

The padawan's hands rested lightly, palms upward, upon his knees. "It's all right," he assured his teacher. "It would have been fun, of course… but I don't need to go. In fact-" a fleeting grimace – "I'm rather tired now. Perhaps I should retire early, as we reserved a salle before firstmeal tomorrow."

The Force remained placid and calm, a pool of Jedi serenity. Qui-Gon smiled.

"That might be wise… but I wonder of you would indulge your old master's whim before turning in for the night?"

He was met with a wary gaze, and a subtle tightening of mental shields that told him the boy was making some wry private estimation of his master's sanity. "Yes, of course."

"Splendid." The tall man sprang to his feet. "We shall leave immediately."

"But… what are we doing?" Obi-Wan stood, confusion flitting over youthful features.

"We are living in the moment, as I constantly strive to instill in you. There is a Republic Day parade tonight, and if we make haste we will be able to intercept the Senatorial barge before the fireworks display."

It took the younger Jedi a moment to recover from his stunned initial reaction. "But…I don't need to go, Master. Truly. I'm over the disappointment."

"Which is why I think it safe to go now. There will be _food, _Padawan."

Brows rising in a manner that told Qui-Gon he had just confirmed the previous suspicion of his mental infirmity, Obi-Wan hastened to obey. "Well then. So long as there is _food, _ it must be the will of the Force," he shot over one shoulder as he ducked into his bedroom to retrieve cloak and boots.

"Impudent brat," Qui-Gon grumbled.


	15. Chapter 15

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Exit Strategy**

"Master Jedi! Please! A moment, if you please!"

They were halfway across the tarmac, the alluring gleam of the highly polished – and deliciously _climate controlled-_ Republic diplomatic shuttle within throwing distance. But of course Qui-Gon Jinn, exemplary ambassador and stickler for courtesy that he was, opted to come to an exasperated halt, turning to face the scurrying retinue of politicians and aides, his hands folded into opposite sleeves.

Behind him, his padawan learner ground to a similar halt, a very colorful Huttese curse welling up from his throat and stopping just behind his tightly clenched teeth.

The Jedi master spared him a single burning look in which reprimand and sympathy were equally blended, before giving over his attention to the flustered Arraxi brigade.

"Please!" the foremost of these supplicants panted, his reptilian skin glittering in the high-day heat, flanges along his neck flared out to absorb and dissipate radiation from the glowering sun. "Is there nothing more we can say to persuade you? Securing a mutually satisfactory trade agreement with the Republic is of paramount importance to our people – do not draw hasty conclusions from a first impression."

Qui-Gon stirred, and Obi-Wan stirred in sync with him, shifting his feet about so that the scorching duracrete beneath his feet would not burn through their soles. Perspiration was running from his hairline, over his brows, and into his eyes, making him blink rapidly as the stinging salt hit its target. He was acutely aware that even his lightest set of robes and tunics involved a great many _layers_ of woven cloth.

"We have spent the last five standard making a _very_ thorough examination of your facilities, Regent," the tall man said, evenly. "That has been more than sufficient to make a determination; may I remind you that my mission was simply to conduct an investigation for the Senate? I am not authorized to draw up any treaties."

He spared a miniscule smile for his private cheering squad of one; the boy's heartfelt approval of these words, and the implied intention to _leave this instant,_ sounded in the plenum like a jolly firework display. Obi-Wan smiled back, displaying both dimples.

But the Arrax officials were not so easily deterred. "You may make recommendations!" their leader hissed, desperation causing his nostril slits to flare. "Please. In the name of justice, let us persuade you to spend another evening with us. Our scribes have prepared more materials for your consideration, figures and cultural surveys… details that may not be evident upon a cursory acquaintance…"

Qui-Gon held up a placating hand. "Regent. If your scribes have prepared further materials, please have them uploaded to my shipboard database. I give you my word I will study them carefully before formulating my report."

"But we had high hopes of entertaining you and your apprentice this evening," the obstinate cabinet member wheedled. "You must not decline our hospitality in such an abrupt fashion."

This was a more daunting gambit; Arraxi culture hinged upon the giving and receiving of gifts and entertainment; to decline such an offer was tantamount to grave personal offense.

"You are too kind," the Jedi master hedged, ignoring the wave of fulminating disapproval emanating from his apprentice, along with the vibrant image of an Arraxi hot-house dinner party, the lavish decorations wavering in the humid air, ceremonial torches lit in every wall sconce, hot coals piled in the table's centerpiece. "I must ask you to reserve the honor for the legislative representative who will follow me, with my gratitude."

It was the only acceptable escape route from such a compelling invitation, and the look of purest hero worship in his apprentice's eyes as he extricated them from the projected horrors of another evening in their hosts' company was priceless. He waved one hand slightly, signaling to the heat-flushed boy that he should rein in his emotive displays. It would never do to exhibit such anxiety to depart in front of the Arraxi.

But the tall reptilian natives had not come unarmed. "But perhaps we may delay you just a moment longer, please." The speaker produced a datapad from beneath his long vestment. "There is a case pending before our high tribunal… one touching on the points of Republic law you mentioned earlier.. perhaps you could give us your opinion on its disposition – so that our litigators may understand the more federal perspective. If you please."

To refuse such a request after declining the invitation would never do; grudgingly, Qui-Gon bowed and took the small reader in hand. Obi-Wan despairingly moved closer, attempting to find sufficient shelter from the sun's beating ray's within his mentor's shadow.

It took an eternity for the Jedi master to peruse the documents; the young Jedi was certain his hair would go up in fire like a candle's flame, and he be reduced to nothing but a dripping and sodden puddle of wax at his master's feet. Arrax Minor was well in excess of the comfortable climate parameters for humanoids, and though they had made of this trip an extended opportunity to hone his budding ability to regulate his body temperature by means of the Force, he was not without limits. He swallowed around a tongue cottony with thirst, and idly watched his sweat drop in random spatters upon his boots and the sizzling ground, not daring to distract Qui-Gon with another unspoken demand for relief from the punishing heat. He glanced longingly at the shuttle, seeming to float like a magical isle above the mirage-rippled sea of the landing pad.

A single bead of perspiration ran slowly down his dangling learner's braid, like the slide of molten wax along a candle's tallow pillar, a droplet of melting Obi-Wan. He seemed to observe its progress from a vantage point slightly outside his own body.

_Padawan, _ a familiar voice spoke in his mind.

Outwardly, Qui-Gon was still absorbed in the abstruse legal inquiry, his own hair lank and grimy about his shoulders, his high sloping forehead glistening with moisture, a slightly reddish tinge to his cheeks and the broken ridge of his nose, despite the sticky and cloying protective cream he had insisted they both use while here.

_It is unbearably hot here, young one,_ the Jedi master informed him, his voice weighted with incontrovertible authority.

"Yes, master," Obi-Wan murmured, reflexively, frowning as another droplet pooled at the end of his braid, clung momentarily to its tufted end like a cocoon pendant from a delicate leaf, and then fell, in graceful slow motion, toward the black and scarred surface beneath his feet, its ovoid shape gracefully changing to a perfect sphere as it plummeted, down down down…

but it wasn't falling anymore, the ground was rising to meet it, black and rushing and spinning and –

* * *

When he came back to his senses, he was ensconced in a cool and blessedly dim interior – sprawled out on his back upon a narrow bunk, stripped of boots and cumbersome regalia, the sweet prickle of evaporating moisture upon his bared skin. A steady blast of cold, cold air trickled over him from an overhead vent; he could hear the machinery's familiar thrum, and a groggy part of his mind identified this as the shuttle's climate conditioner.

"Oh…!" he groaned, the sudden relief almost like a blow.

"Better?" Qui-Gon Jinn's voice inquired, from behind him. He twisted about, to get a view of the tall man leaning in the passenger compartment's hatchway, cloak discarded and long hair gathered into a knot at the back of his head.

"I've become one with the Force," Obi-Wan decided, collapsing back onto the hard cot and unabashedly savoring the waterfall of 'cycled air from the vents. The hull vibrated quietly, setting the bulkheads aquiver. They were in transit, then.

The Jedi master stepped fully inside the small compartment and leaned over his apprentice, laying one broad hand over his forehead and probing gently with the Force. "Here, sit up – there's nothing the matter with you that a bit of hydration won't solve."

His padawan shifted upright again, and accepted the electrolyte solution offered him. He gulped it down enthusiastically, and then another full container, not stopping until his abdomen felt distended. And yet his thirst remained not entirely abated.

"What happened?" he frowned, attempting unsuccessfully to recall the details of their escape from Arrax Minor.

"Ah." Qui-Gon crossed his arms and regarded his younger counterpart with a mischievous smile lurking behind his gaze. "You, my friend, made a very dramatic scene. When you collapsed of heat stroke upon the landing pad, the Regent and his assistants were overcome with solicitous feeling and hustled you on board the ship. Being unfamiliar with warm-blooded physiology, and assuming that your life was in danger, they naturally offered all the planet's own resources – it was touching, really. I told them we would require a more specialized expertise and that we would need to made an expeditious departure. I believe they were so overcome with compassion for your youth and frailty that they quite forgot about their need to detain us longer."

The padawan absorbed this narrative with a suitably appalled expression. "Frailty?!"

"You _did_ faint on the tarmac, Obi-Wan."

"Oh. Well… yes, but – but, my life was not in danger. Was it?"

The tall man shrugged his shoulders. "The Arraxi are an obstreperous people. I thought it best not to enter a dispute over trifling details."

His apprentice rubbed at the back of his neck. "At least we're off that hell-hole," he grumbled. He propped his elbows upon his knees and rested his chin on his balled fists. "I'm sorry I did not master the temperature regulation exercises, Master. I thought I had succeeded better than that."

A large hand rose to tug lightly at his short braid. "On the contrary – you were doing very nicely. My command simply caught you off guard, so to speak."

Befuddled, the padawan looked up. "Your comm…" A gasp of realization. "You did that on purpose! _Master!"_

Qui-Gon's brows twitched upward in undisguised amusement at his student's outrage. "You were all but begging to be relieved of duty," he pointed out.

Obi-Wan's arms crossed over his chest, mirroring the tall man's own posture. "Not like that!" he griped. "Besides… that was an underhanded trick. What kind of example are you setting to me for my future diplomatic career?"

The Jedi master leaned forward and chucked his padawan under the chin. "I'm teaching you to use whatever resources are at your disposal to achieve the desired result. Better a spot of humiliation for you than a heap of offense given to our hosts, hm?"

The boy's mouth twisted ruefully, brows contracting in displeasure– but he ceded defeat. "Yes, all right." He scowled at Qui-Gon. "I am _overwhelmed_ by your wisdom in this instance, Master."

"Good." Chuckling, the older man stood and waved the hatch open again. "And when you've recovered sufficiently to join me in the cockpit, I would like your assistance formulating a discreet summary of events for the mission report."

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, but followed the tall Jedi into the forward compartment nevertheless, nudging the shipboard thermostat setting down a few more degrees as a concession to his youth and frailty.

"Blast it," he muttered, without any real venom.


	16. Chapter 16

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Spic & Span**

Sonics. Water. Sonics. Water.

Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn rapped smartly upon the 'fresher door's plastoid paneling, augmenting the warning with a sharp mental reprimand. _Sensual indulgence._

Sonics.

_Therapy,_ came the glib reply, the Force quivering with suppressed amusement.

Water.

The tall man raised both brows and waved the door open, only to be enveloped in a thick cloud of hot vapor and the choking scent of halsamint scrubbing liquid. He choked off the water supply in mid-stream and crossed his arms sternly as a sopping and towel-clad padawan appeared amidst the clouds of steam, unrepentant mirth dancing in his eyes.

"Is there a problem, Master?"

"I presume you were intending to finish at some time before noon-meal? There might be _other_ beings patiently waiting their turn in the facilities."

The young Jedi widened his eyes theatrically. "Forgive my lack of consideration, Master – your need surely outweighs my own; I would not wish you to embarrass yourself with an _accident_ due to the infirmity of age."

He attempted to shoulder his way past the tall man before retributive action could be visited upon him, but sadly the infirmity of age did not seem to extend to Qui-Gon's reflexes. The resultant _thwack_ to a certain insolent backside could likely have been heard in the hushed residential corridor outside.

Obi-Wan swaggered into his own tiny bedchamber with as much dignity as he could muster, discreetly rubbing at his bruised hindquarters with the hand not busy clutching his towel in place.

His mentor grumbled something under his breath and slid the door closed behind him.

* * *

Midday meal was a subdued affair. Obi-Wan comported himself with proper Jedi reserve, offering his master no further incitement to corrective measures. Indeed, he was the very picture of well-mannered and well-groomed civility.

Especially well-groomed. "Padawan."

"Yes, Master?" A regal lift of the brows, one rendered acceptable only by the precise calibration of respect in the tone, a balancing act effected with exquisite skill.

Qui-Gon set his utensil down. "I don't remember telling you to requisition all new clothing from the quartermaster."

Unfazed, Obi-Wan maintained his bland expression. "I took the initiative, Master – since you were absorbed in the mission report."

"Are you authorized to take initiative, Obi-Wan?"

The dry inquiry was met with the faintest quirk of the padawan's mouth, mirth bubbling beneath the quiescent exterior. "The precepts do say _suffer no impurity nor stain of defilement."_

"Which is construed differently by the ancient commentators, but most often as referring to inner realities."

Obi-Wan's dimples appeared. "I assure you, Master, I am pure and undefiled all the way down to my privies."

Qui-Gon masked his choked laughter with a stern remonstrance. "Your vanity has grown to inordinate proportions, young one."

"Since when are soap and clean linens the trappings of vanity?" his apprentice scoffed, his effusive gesture threatening to spill a cup of muja juice all over his immaculate tunics. He caught the tottering glass with a small, frivolous application of the Force.

"What's this about trappings of vanity?" a richly amused voice joined in.

"Feld. Please join us." Qui-Gon waved magnanimously at the seat beside him. "Obi-Wan has been compensating for the rigors of our latest mission. Stress induced psychological trauma, you understand."

The Twi'Lek knight nodded sagely. "Well, Obi-Nobi was a nut job to start with. I say this with all due respect."

"I'm sure you do." The padawan in question offered his friend a wiltingly sarcastic smile.

Qui-Gon's eyes twinkled. "What remedy would you suggest, Master Spruu?"

Feld tipped his chair back, feigning professional speculation. "Mind you, I am not a soul-healer –"

"Thank the Force," Obi-Wan interjected.

"-but before you indulge in radical solutions like aversion therapy, perhaps you should try the time tested method of beating the evil spirits out of him. Obi-Nobi enjoys a sound thrashing, judging by his performance in the salles, and a good cry is so cathartic, yes?"

Obi-Wan leaned across the table, eyes flashing combatively, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "With _all due respect, _ Master Spruu, I would be happy to bring you to the point of tears – if you have a spare moment to indulge my whim?"

"Brazen impudence," Feld grinned, shaking his head. His lekku undulated with anticipatory delight. "Best three of five matches."

"I'll leave you two to your studies, then," Qui-Gon decided, tactfully withdrawing from the battle arena.

* * *

He returned to quarters several hours later, expecting to find that the intervening sparring session had soothed his boisterous young friend's nerves – but was greeted instead with the spectacle of an aproned padawan diligently scrubbing the floors on hands and knees, the familiar line of intense absorption standing like an exclamation mark between his brows.

"What's this?" the tall man inquired, stepping round the hover-caddy with its brushes and polishing cream. "Have the droids gone malfunctional?"

"Their performance is mediocre," his student explained, attacking the baseboards with pitiless vigor. "I'm giving this place a proper cleaning."

"Hm." The Jedi master picked his way across the common room, noting the gleaming condition of its surfaces, the flawless tidiness of its few contents. He wondered vaguely whether the match with Feld Spruu had somehow served as catalyst to this purgative frenzy, but quickly decided that his apprentice's current state of mind did involve certain beneficial aspects.

Best to let the malaise ride itself out unimpeded. Besides, the boy had more than earned such humiliating chores as punishment for his incessant cheek. That he now undertook the same tasks willingly seemed immaterial.

Qui-Gon gratefully threw himself down upon his low sleep mat and summoned a holoreader into his hands.

* * *

When he reached for his boots the following morning, he discovered that they had been industriously cleaned and polished – and that his cloak, an old and worn favorite which he would never dream of trading in for a more pristine specimen, had been treated to some tender loving care as well. Although, he had to admit with a rueful and amused twist of his lips, the stitching that now held the formerly bedraggled hem in place did bespeak a certain amateurish level of skill. The cloak really hadn't _needed_ mending, in his view – but the evidence of quiet devotion left upon it pleased him immensely.

Tea had already been prepared and set upon the glistening common room table. The balcony doors stood open at precise forty-five degree angles, admitting a warm shaft of morning light into the small chamber. Even the datapads and holobooks Obi-Wan clearly intended to take to some academic session this morning were piled with meticulous care near the door. Nothing was out of place, not a speck of dust marred the peerless tableau. Qui-Gon would not be surprised if even the leaves of his various seedlings and plants had been wiped down and arranged to satisfaction.

Of course, _compulsive_ behavior had no part in a Jedi's life. Though orderliness was surely admissible?

"Master."

And behold: one padawan, neatly attired, clean-shaven, hair cropped to a severe regulation length, saber hilt gleaming, boots all but sparkling despite the irrevocable scuff or two upon the supple nerfhide uppers, braid strictly bound and demurely hanging at his right shoulder, not a speck or flaw to be seen anywhere. ...Well, almost anywhere.

"You've got some kind of spot on your face," he informed his fastidious young companion. "Just there."

Obi-Wan rubbed vexedly at his cheek and then cottoned on, favoring Qui-Gon with an acidic eye-roll. "That's a birthmark. Not _dirt_."

Qui-Gon's own eyes creased in amusement as he imagined his determined student attempting to eradicate the unruly freckle with a plethora of beauty creams and blemish removers.

"Very funny," Obi-Wan grumbled, as the perverse image translated across their Force bond. "I've a lecture to attend. And then Maser Pertha's galactic botany survey."

"May the Force be with you," Qui-Gon intoned, solemnly.

The padawan departed with a respectful bow, leaving the older man to enjoy his tea alone in their quarters' absolutely spotless environs.

* * *

But the following evening, the matter was doomed to come to a head, as must all such precarious imbalances in the Force.

Qui-Gon found his plant collection evicted from the apartment's common area. The drooping green things he had lovingly nurtured and in some cases saved from an untimely demise stood now upon the balcony, despondent and dejected as only living beings with no power of self-movement, speech, or emotive expression can be. They were clustered together beneath Coruscant's frenetic skies, huddled beneath the railing as though seeking shelter from the harsh artificiality of the environment.

It took a moment to wrestle his protective ire into a semblance of Jedi calm. "_Obi-Wan."_

The culprit emerged from the smaller bedroom looking as guileless and charmingly innocent as ever, but Qui-Gon Jinn was never one to be fooled by mere outward appearance.

"Padawan. Would you care to explain what offense the plants have committed, to merit such rude expulsion from their proper home?"

The young Jedi's expression underwent a rapid transformation from attentive respect, to inarticulate shock, to guilty realization, shame, and then defensive heat.

"Master, they _drop things _all over the floors and attract insects and mold. The atmosphere in here is strictly regulated – don't you think they are better off outside where-"

"Are you now an expert horticulturalist, Obi-Wan, after a few hours spent in Master Pertha's company?"

Leery of committing another diplomatic blunder, the padawan shifted tactics. "I am sorry, Master, I only intended to make an adjustment for the sake of cleanliness and order. I did not intend your plants harm. Much the opposite."

It was difficult to resist the ingratiating tone of this declaration, but the tall man was adamantine where the welfare of helpless creatures was concerned. He kept his voice perfectly level. "I believe the key phrase there is _my _plants, young one."

There was something piteous in his apprentice's face as the gravity of his error sank in. Qui-Gon refused to be melted. "Well?"

"I – I was mistaken, Master. I considered them part of the furnishings… not… please accept my apologies for overstepping bounds. I'll move them back inside."

A curt nod. The occasion seemed to call for a formal apology or atonement made to the victims of such callous insensitivity, but there were inter-species barriers too difficult to surmount. The Jedi master released his aggravation on a long breath, stonily supervising the restoration of the plants to their rightful places.

When the unacceptable state of affairs had been reversed, Obi-Wan adopted a contrite posture before his master, bent on one knee.

The tall man sighed again. "I should make you spend the night on the balcony in their stead," he grumbled.

No answer, though he thought he could glean a suitable degree of trepidation through the training bond.

"Never mind," he decided at last. "You will meditate on the root of this irrational behavior, and we will discuss it in the morning."

Obi-Wan slunk back into his own room, thoroughly chastised and not a little confused. He stopped in the doorway, seeking to dissipate the palpable tension in the room with a breath of humor. "If it alleviates your worries, Master, this is the first time I've committed such an unspeakable atrocity."

"Make sure it's the last," his mentor growled, waving him away with a not entirely straight face.

* * *

Qui-Gon rose early and made tea himself, toying with the idea of calling upon Master Yoda to mediate the dispute. But as tempting as the notion was, he decided to spare his apprentice the further embarrassment. Instead he roused the boy by peremptorily confiscating his bundled covers and pillow, and flicking the illuminators to an abrupt full power.

"Uuungh…. Master?"

"Good morning. Come talk to me. You have thirty seconds."

The tight time frame insured that there would be no nonsense about clothing or hair or a lengthy shower. They knelt to either side of the low table, equally disheveled. Obi-Wan eyed one or two of the leaves and seed-casings that had fallen on the floors during the night, but swallowed down the incipient complaint.

Qui-Gon poured tea, purposefully spilling a bit on the tabletop and daring his student to complain. No protests were forthcoming. "Now," he said, "tell me what lies behind all this _fussing_ you've been doing lately."

Obi-Wan ran both hands though his disorderly crown of chestnut spikes. "I am sorry, Master. It was an overreaction to that hell-forsaken _pit_ on Guumbah 3. I don't know what overcame me… it's as though the slime and the vile filth and , and the _smell…_ as though they've clung to me this whole time. Do you… do you think I ought to see the soul healers?" He bit his lower lip softly, then recollected himself and folded his hands in his lap, pondering the question further in the liquid depths of his tea-bowl.

"No," the Jedi master thoughtfully decided. "I think we can handle this on our own. Sitting submerged beneath a pool of waste sludge for three hours is beyond the limits of many beings, Padawan. I think you are entitled to a _little_ neurosis. But now it needs to end."

Obi-Wan risked an open smile. "Now that the pathetic life forms are on the line."

"Yes. I have my limits, as do you."

"Yes, Master."

Qui-Gon sent a wave of encouragement through the Force. "A few new elements added to our in-Temple routine ought to effect the necessary cure. First, I am moving the Chandrilan fern into your room. It will not be relocated, and it will be allowed to drop fronds at will upon your floor, to be tidied up _only_ by the droid housekeeper."

Obi-Wan sighed.

"Also: you are limited to three minutes in the shower, and two to shave or wash up."

"Master – I can't –"

"Then you will have to be a bit scruffy around the edges, won't you? Further, I have instructed the laundry to accept only _one_ basket of clothing from our quarters each week." He ploughed onward, dutifully ignoring the pained and appalled look on his padawan's face. "And of course we will be touring the Coruscant refuse collection and disposal facilities and working in the smaller meditation garden planting seeds until your fingernails are black with ground-in soil."

There was a long pause in which Obi-Wan's unspoken response could only be described as horrified resignation.

"Nothing to say?" the Jedi master teased.

"Maybe we should try Feld's remedy after all," his beleaguered student muttered.

"Oh, I think this should _beat_ out any lingering evil spirits,, not to worry."

Another disgruntled silence. Then, "I thought _cleanliness is next to godliness._ It's a common proverb in many galactic cultures."

"Ah, but we are seekers, not saints."

Obi-Wan's eyes slid sideways, wryly. He heaved a deep sigh and steeled himself for the bitter trials ahead. "…Yes, Master. If we _must_ play dirty."

"In a good cause," Qui-Gon assured him. "Only in a good cause."


	17. Chapter 17

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Private Tutoring**

**Part 1**

Qui-Gon Jinn was in a foul mood.

This rare, but not _unprecedented,_ phenomenon was made evident by several tell-tale symptoms, each one observed and carefully noted by the man's wryly perceptive padawan learner.

First, there was the manner in which the Jedi master summoned the canister of dried tea leaves into his hand, with a completely frivolous use of the Force. Then, there was the abbreviated length of time he allowed the crushed herbs to steep in their steaming bath of water - a full minute shaved off their customary languid tenure inside the dainty ceramplast pot devoted exclusively to this function. Then there was the almost acerbic efficiency with which the fragrant brew was poured into the waiting cup, no effort spared upon elegant ritual. And finally – perhaps most significantly – there was the absence of any appreciative sigh of enjoyment upon the first sip. Qui-Gon merely swallowed and set the shallow bowl back upon its delicate convex saucer with a carefully controlled exhalation.

Jedi were a reserved and studiedly non-demonstrative set of people; Obi-Wan Kenobi, raised in the culture since earliest childhood and born with a native gift for reading subtle cues of expression and posture, was able to rightly interpret these signs as the black thunderclouds about a brewing electrical storm on his mentor's inner horizons. Even if Qui-Gon's mental shields were not raised to a blank and impenetrable intensity, he would have known immediately that all was not well – at all, at all.

"Tea, Padawan?"

The young Jedi set his holobook down upon the low table in their shared quarters' common room and accepted the proffered cup with a gracious nod, watching cagily as his teacher sank onto the opposite floor cushion with another slow Yamalsa technique calming breath.

The temptation to naively inquire, _how was your afternoon, Master?_ made a strong attempt to breach the wall of objections raised by his prudence; but his basic instinct for self preservation eventually won out over the lure of mischief making. Obi-Wan settled for a more circuitous tactic. "The tea is a trifle _bitter_ today," he decided, expression one of bland dispassion.

Qui-Gon's chagrin manifested as an impatient twist of the mouth.

Eyes widening innocently, his apprentice held out a hand and shamelessly levitated the honey-jar into his grasp, proceeding to make a show of stirring a slightly _indulgent_ quantity of the golden syrup into his own cup with demurely lowered gaze.

The Jedi master cleared his throat at the brash display of _frivolity_, but his young protégé ignored the wordless disapprobation, gloating over his tiny victory of principle. The first sip was delicious – hot and undeniably sweet, even sticky_-_ and he made a point of relishing it audibly.

"_Obi-Wan."_

"Yes, master?"

The older man fixed his padawan with a piercing look. "It is still forbidden, even should I fail to set a proper example."

"Oh…,yes, Master."

The meek tone annoyed Qui-Gon further. "And the same applies in every other area, as well, so spare your wit the effort of earning multiple rebukes."

Delighted to have made such swift progress, Obi-Wan pitched his next response even lower, bordering on simpering passivity. "Of course, Master. I shall be sure neither to earn them... nor to sulk afterward when I have been rightfully censured."

The Jedi master's beard bristled where his jaw clenched in sharp vexation. "That's _enough_."

They finished the tea in silence, Qui-Gon brooding darkly and his apprentice warily observing him across the low table. The Force rankled with the master's grievances against the Jedi Council, with the miasma of his slowly released tension.

At long last, the bitter dregs cooling in their empty bowls, the tall man sighed and stood, his apprentice respectfully following suit.

"The Council session did not go well," Qui-Gon admitted ruefully. "I'm afraid our stand-by status has been revoked in light of other… duties… imposed upon me during the next month."

Obi-Wan did not entirely succeed in concealing his disappointment. "We're grounded for the entire month? With respect, master, what does that mean for me? I've completed the last cycle of coursework already, and the new rotation won't begin for another three weeks." When he received no immediate answer, he hastily added, "Unless I can be of assistance to you?"

The Jedi master hooked both thumbs through his belt and sighed. "There is no reason you should be forced to share the burden of my misdemeanors," he said. "No, I will find a fruitful way for you to spend this time. A setback in our mission status should not delay your training."

The padawan shifted, gaze flicking sideways and then back at his mentor. "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?" came the dry response.

* * *

The maglev train lurched to a halt at the next public transport terminal in the Tarshuu district, sending nearly every passenger sliding out of his seat or stumbling into the curved durasteel walls. Obi-Wan kept his footing, leaning down to help an elderly Rodian woman off the deck. He neatly stacked her spilled groceries back in their hover-basket and made sure the hooligan just behind them did not succeed in swiping her purse off the vacant bench.

"Oh, thankee, lad," the mottle-skinned crone murmured, settling back in her seat, parcels clutched in her lap. "These droid conductors get worse all the time."

Another concentrated glare at the would-be thief sent the rascal skittering away into the next compartment. Obi-Wan felt a flare of satisfaction, until he realized that his cloak had parted to reveal the 'saber hilt hanging at his side, and _this –_ not his sheer intimidating mien – had likely been the inspiration for a hasty retreat.

"Oh," his new acquaintance crooned, having noticed the weapon herself. "_Oh._" She extended an arthritic hand and patted his elbow. "You're a good boy, dearie."

A small smile and a tight nod covered his dismay at the well-intentioned praise. He aspired to be like Qui-Gon Jinn, who palpably exuded proper Jedi dignity and calm, and a sense of banked power, a sheltering wisdom that extended compassionate concern to every sentient being. "Good boy" was not nearly good _enough, _ by his private and exacting standard of perfection. He sighed, watching Coruscant's densely packed metropolis slide into a blur as the mag-rail picked up speed again. The sector into which they were presently rushing at a reckless velocity was shabby and filth-crusted, one of the older parts of the sprawling city-planet's duracrete jungle, one bereft of gleaming highrises and orderly air traffic lanes. Pollution and graffiti covered every surface, and a jetsam of living debris collected in the alleys and corners of pedestrian byways: beggars, peddlers of stolen goods, prostitutes, crime ring informants, drunks, runaways, castoffs, desperados, and a motley assortment of others he could not so easily categorize.

As the train against jolted to a standstill at its assigned terminal, he could no longer ignore the pang of doubt making itself felt deep in his chest. He slipped his datapad from its pouch and double-checked the instructions given him by Qui-Gon that very morning…. But no, this was undoubtedly the correct transport hub and district. With another sigh, this time of mingled chagrin and resignation, he stepped down onto the grimy platform, choking on the scent of lubricant and overheated plastoid.

"Stars' end." At seventeen, he was legally permitted to navigate the airlanes in a two to four passenger cloud-car; but this privilege was little more than a formality when one's lack of _seniority_ insured that one's request at the Temple transport pool would be assigned the lowest possible priority. A padawan venturing out solo on a non-mission related excursion had about the same likelihood of being granted use of a private Temple vehicle as the next Pel'Ch'Tar meteor shower had of hitting 500 Republica's penthouse dome. And so. Here he was.

"Hey, Jedi!"

He pivoted on the spot, seeking the origin of this salutation. A handful of catcalls and sniggering followed the original summons. He scowled at the group of young tramps lounging against the outside ticketing office wall, but the clear hint only produced more tittering and pointing. The speaker, a humanoid with slender antennae protruding from her garishly dyed and spiked hair, shimmied forward, her synth-leather bodice and artfully ripped leggings revealing an expanse of tattooed orange skin beneath.

"Hey, I think I need your _help, _Jedi," the young woman slurred, her breath heady with some acrid intoxicant. "I got a problem you can fix - with your saber." She smirked and sashayed unsteadily forward, while her companions whistled and guffawed.

"Irresponsible saber-play can result in unfortunate consequences," he chided her. "Especially for the inexperienced."

The girl offered him a lewd smirk. "Oh don't worry - I've handled plenty of weapons in my day."

His brows crept upward, sardonic. "Then you know mine is not for _amateurs."_

The audience thought this was richly amusing- more sniggering and rude remarks followed, causing the inebriated woman to scowl fiercely at her companions before staggering forward another unsteady step. "So you just gonna leave me _pining?"_ she accused the young Jedi. "That's not very compassionate."

He deftly stepped backward one pace, avoiding her grab for his tunic collar, and made her a deep bow. "I am sorry to leave your desires so… unfulfilled, madam."

As he fled down the long duracrete platform, inwardly relieved that Qui-Gon Jinn had not been present to witness the exchange, and equally certain now that his mentor had intended the entire trip as a test of his fortitude and patience. Perhaps he should not have so brazenly teased the Jedi master about his habitual defiance of the Council's mandates; he now entertained a niggling suspicion that the "extra training" designed by Qui-Gon for his edification was going to leave him _wishing _for something as tame as a formal censuring, the master's penance somehow being refracted and multiplied through the lens of _authority, _ until his Padawan suffered enough _inconvenience_ to learn the manifest virtue and benefit of holding his tongue.

"Blast it," he grumpily muttered, Force-flicking an empty Blitz-fizz bottle out of his path as he stormed down the adjacent alleyway toward his unfamiliar destination.

* * *

It was not difficult to find the right address; the broad door punctuated an otherwise unalleviated stretch of aging duracrete, the hostelry's façade proclaiming it to once have been a warehouse or factory floor. Obi-Wan took a deep centering breath and pressed the door chime.

When the heavy plastoid panel did finally open, it revealed a stretch of shabby synth-plush carpet, much the worse for wear, and a few pieces of mismatched and outdated furniture. There was no droid attendant at the concierge's desk, nor any bell to ring for service. Overhead a halo-lamp flickered pathetically, casting lurid shadows on the dull walls. The young Jedi took a few tentative steps forward, noting that the lift doors all bore notices in scrawled Aurebesh lettering: Out of Service. A single dubiously functional security cam was mounted in the far corner; a layer of grey dust had settled over the plastoid zinthy'tl flowers in their chintzy vase upon the counter. It was just the sort of dilapidated, pathetic venue in which one would expect to find one of Qui-Gon Jinn's various strays and vagabonds.

For that, undoubtedly, was the nature of the old acquaintance he had been sent here expressly to meet.

His musings were interrupted by a booming voice, echoing from the stairwell high above. "Hold on, there, kiddo, I'm a comin' – these stairs ain't so easy as they look, if you take my meaning."

Obi-Wan craned his head to get a better view of the speaker, but the convoluted architecture screened the upper flights from sight. The stairs on the next floor groaned ominously as the newcomer descended, suggesting a body mass of, say, a hundred fifty kilos.

"Well, now," the gravelly baritone continued after a moments' pause. "Why don't ya meet me halfway, then – you bein' a trim young feller an' all. Come on, now… I'm eager to meet ol' Qui-Gon's latest stray."

Piqued by the realization that curiosity regarding his master's various charity projects might run both ways, Obi-Wan bounded up the intervening stairs in a single fluid motion, only to come to a surprised halt upon the second landing, where he nearly barreled straight into the owner of the mysterious rasping voice. Upon one assessing glance he immediately amended his prior estimate of this person's weight in the direction of two hundred kilos, and then some. The hefty Besalisk stood arms akimbo – all four arms, to be precise – throat sack waggling with jolly anticipation, and enormous belly protruding unabashed from between his waistband and the hem of his thin utility shirt.

A massive mouth split to reveal a double row of fragmented, yellowing, and thoroughly ferocious pointed teeth. "Oh, ho, ho!" the reptilian chuckled. "So yer the little whipper-snapper as gots the old man in such a sentimental mood." Gimlet eyes narrowed in approval. "Never heard a Jedi brag before."

Caught off guard, and suspecting that the lumbering fellow was not quite right in the head, Obi-Wan settled for a polite bow. Clearly the Besalisk did not know his master as well as his familiar mode of expression might suggest – for Qui-Gon Jinn never bragged, and was certainly not given to maudlin sentiment – but there was no excuse for incivility. "I am honored to make your acquaintance, Mr…?"

"Jettster," the enormous reptilian supplied. "Dexter. But Dex 'll do jist fine,between us. Seein' as we're already connected and all."

"Dex," Obi-Wan repeated, hesitantly. He supposed it was a fitting appellation for any being possessed of such a surfeit of limbs, particulary ones surmounted by astonishingly large hands.

"An' yer Obi-Wan – don't deny it, you match the description jist fine, right down to the whaddya-call-ems… dimples."

The young Jedi had enough wit not to inquire further after the contents of that description, a well-honed instinct for preserving his own dignity warning him that such knowledge would only prove a source of deep mortification.

Dexter Jettster executed a cumbersome about-face and sighed noisily as he faced the purgatorial ascent to the next landing. "Ah," he grumbled. "Don't suppose you could use those mystical powers o' yers to help a fellow up, now?"

"I'm sorry – Master Jinn is very strict about frivolous uses of the Force."

"I'll bet he is," the Besalisk snorted, heaving his ponderous weight up the stairs one broad step at a time. "Well, come on then – I got refreshments waitin' at the top… and a fine view, too." He reached an enormous hand behind his back and hitched up his sagging trousers, which had been threatening to reveal more of the subject than was socially acceptable. "An' then we can talk shop."

Equally alarmed and intrigued by this invitation, Obi-Wan followed his oddly charismatic host up the twisting stairs, all the way to the shabby penthouse suite on the derelict building's top floor, wondering what in the blazes Qui-Gon Jinn had let him in for this time.


	18. Chapter 18

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Private Tutoring**

**Part 2**

"Sit, sit. Make yerself comfortable," the amiable Besalisk hollered from the back of his apartment's wide kitchen. "Be there in just a sec'."

The young Jedi tore his gaze away from the panoramic view of Coruscant's surrounding squalor afforded by the panoramic windows, and directed his attention to the flat's motley assortment of chairs and settees, every one of them four times too large for an average human, even Qui-Gon Jinn. He gravitated toward one of the smaller pieces – an overstuffed recliner in a faded yet still garish orange upholstery – only to discover that even this modestly proportioned seat left his feet dangling absurdly off the floor. Mouth twisting wryly, he crossed his legs beneath him in meditation posture and pulled the extraneous folds of his cloak up over his knees.

Dex reappeared bearing a laden tray. Too late, his guest realized that Besalisk ideas of culinary excellence or delicacy might not align with a human palate – and that diplomatic necessity, much less good manners, would oblige him to at least _sample_ whatever concoction the enthusiastic cook had prepared for his delight.

Bracing himself , he accepted an oversized plate of….

Greasy slammers, a universal favorite colloquially known as Sloppy Jawas. Obi-Wan's brows rose. Though not precisely _nutritious, _the common pan-species junk food was a far cry from some of the horrid things he had been obliged to consume at ambassadorial banquets over the years. He sighed in relief, thanking Dex with a polite nod of the head.

"Now don't be shy," the huge reptilian warned, dumping a hot pile of fried crezzils next to the sandwiches. "Qui-Gon already told me you eat yer own body weight every day or close to it." He chuckled wetly, patting his own protuberant belly. "I did myself, in my day… but time goes by, an' before ya know it, ya've got a few more years and a few more pounds under the belt."

"I'll be sure to ask Master about that." Obi-Wan popped a hot and oily crezzil into his mouth, careful not to wipe his fingers on his cream tunics, though Dex had forgotten to provide hand-cloths.

A loud snort met this teasing threat. "Not him, o'course," the Besalisk harrumphed good-humoredly. "Bet he lives on nothing but tea an' yer Force an' whatnot – am I right?"

Obi-Wan smiled, enjoying his next mouthful. This information was certainly not accurate; he had many a time witnessed Qui-Gon Jinn consume a hearty meal with ravenous appetite, particularly after a hard mission or an extended sparring match. But far be it from him to dispel any of his mentor's carefully cultivated Jedi mystique. "Something like that, yes."

Dexter Jettster eased himself into another gargantuan chair, clutching the fraying armrests with two hands while his other arms balanced the remaining dishes. "Ah ha ha…I'm not so _spiritual_ myself," he confided in his new acquaintance, throat sack waggling merrily. "Been around the galaxy way too much fer that kind o' thing." He laid into his own repast with sufficient gusto to prove this point beyond a shadow of a doubt.

"How did you meet my master?" the Padawan asked, curiously.

The Besalisk grunted, wide jaw working sideways as he chewed an entire slammer in one bite. "Ah – long story, that. That was a long time ago, now – I owe him a lot, ya know. If a hadn'ta run into him then, I'd probl'y still be runnin' illegal weapons in the Rims."

Obi-Wan's eyes widened, but Dexter neatly prevented further inquiry by turning the question around, in the time honored manner of Jedi masters everywhere. "An' where did ol' Qui-Gon find _you,_ I'd like to know?"

"Oh…ah, in the Temple clan dormitory playroom." It was an inglorious meeting-place, one too innocent and quotidian to inspire much interest, but it was the truth. It had been a strange meeting, one so momentous and personally meaningful that he barely recalled any details of the surroundings or the occasion, only the overwhelming _fact_ that Qui-Gon Jinn had appeared in the doorframe, taken one look at the boisterous members of Dragon Clan, and then locked eyes with his future padawan - the Force instantly uniting them in a stunned mutual certitude.

The reptilian waved a huge hand at him, each one of its digits as thick as Obi-Wan's wrist. "Tha's right, tha's right – told me the whole story already, Qui Gon did. Said you were the most impertinent little runt he'd ever laid eyes on, clever as a Hutt and cute as the blazes, too… Easy there, youngster, don't choke – I'll fetch us some drink."

And up he got, lumbering into the kitchen again while Obi-Wan regained his composure.

"There ya are," he rumbled, returning a moment later with a steaming mug in hand. "Don't' trust the water supply here – tainted, or I'm a Wookiee – and I don't got any _tea.._ but here's some proper argees. Jawa juice – ain't nothing like it in all the galaxy."

The caff was brewed strong and bitter, its flavor unalleviated by blue milk or sweetener. Obi-Wan sipped cautiously at his fragrant serving of the hot liquid, the earthy aftertaste somehow resonant with Dexter Jettster's _aura_ in the Force.

"It's good," the young Jedi said, gratefully.

"It's addictive, too," the Besalisk chortled. 'Well, now, ya know why yer here an all, I daresay."

"I'm afraid Master Qui-Gon did not specify. He simply sent me to your address without explanation," Obi-Wan explained apologetically.

Dex found this amusing. "Well! Ain't that just like him." He settled back in his chair with a rolling grunt and folded two arms over his chest in smug satisfaction. "I'll spill the beans, then. I been contracted to provide ye with some… _private tutorin'."_

"…Private tutoring?"

When the padawan failed to make further trenchant remark upon this unexpected arrangement, Dex continued amicably. "Tha's right. Qui-Gon's asked me to to let ye in on the tricks o' the trade, kiddo. I got more to teach n' you got brains to learn - and no offense intended. Fact is, I'm honored to make a contribution to yer Jedi…_wisdom_."

"That's … wonderful," Obi-Wan replied, completely and uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

* * *

"Well? What did you think?"

This unheralded question was lobbed at the Padawan during a late evening meal in the Temple refectory, without preamble or further explication.

Obi-Wan stirred his soup lackadaisically. The Sloppy Jawas had left him bereft of his customary ravenous appetite, replacing it with the dull suggestion of stomachache, and a thready ache behind his temples. Surely there was no more pernicious dietary extravagance in the galaxy than deep fat fried slammers and crezzils, unless it were the deep fat fried dessert Dex had plied his young guest with prior to ushering him back into the derelict urban environs of his chosen habitat. "It isn't my place to think, master," he quipped, albeit half-heartedly.

The tall man's annoyance with his own immediate superiors simmered over into their present exchange. "Contrary to Council protocol, that response does not guarantee you _my_ approval. I wonder what you thought of Dex; he has already commed to share his opinion of you in great detail."

The spoon dropped into its brothy environs. "Yes?"

But Qui-Gon was not forthcoming with details. He diverted the conversation back onto its original track with the tenacity of the stubborn old gundark he was. "We are discussing your opinion of Dex, not the inverse," he reminded his student.

"Perhaps the former depends upon the latter," Obi-Wan responded, the truculent edge to his tone softened by a small lop-sided smile.

His companion was in no mood for banter, however. "Ego has no place in the life of a Jedi," came the tart reminder.

"Yes, Master. I – I liked him quite a bit. He is charismatic, generous, without real guile, and readily affectionate. Also, he holds you in great esteem, which naturally commends him to my good opinion."

Qui-Gon's sterm face softened. "Such considerations should weigh less in the scales of your judgment, Padawan."

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan replied, blatantly insincere.

The tall man regarded him with a bemused tolerance. Then, "And on the negative side? Besides the stomache-ache his cooking has so clearly left in its wake? I should have warned you not too indulge too freely in the munificence of his table."

"Ah, yes." Obi-Wan blushed, and inwardly grimaced at his teacher's infallible and uncanny ability to read him, mental shields notwithstanding. "Besides unintentional harm visited upon my gastrointestinal system, I can accuse him of no outstanding faults. Well, except perhaps…"

The older Jedi leaned back, hands loosely hooked through his belt.

His apprentice hesitated, then ploughed onward. "He is cynical. He does seem to acknowledge the Force in his own way, but – how shall I say it?"

"Dex is a simple being trying to make his way in the universe. He has seen much, not all of it inspiring, and closely guards what scraps of faith in destiny and sentient compassion he may have left behind a façade of jaded pragmatism."

Obi-Wan laughed aloud, a rare explosion of mirth that attracted several censorious gazes from their sober colleagues at other tables. "You know him well."

"Indeed, I do. And I also know you well," Qui-Gon reminded his amused companion. "You will be good for each other. Learn all that you can from him, Padawan. And in exchange for his knowledge, perhaps you can impart to him some _wisdom."_

An intimidating mandate to thrust upon one who held the rank of mere _learner_ in the Order's elaborate structure of privilege and authority, but the commission was accepted with grave courtesy. "I'll do my best, Master."

Qui-Gon's grey eyes crinkled softly at the corners, a tiny benediction. "Good."

* * *

When the young Jedi presented himself punctually the next morning for his _private tutoring_ lessons, he was surprised to find the amiable Besalisk still clad in a pair of generously proportioned sleep-pants, a cup of steaming argees in hand.

"Why. Here y'are already!" he bellowed, sufficiently loud to rouse any other neighbors still idly lounging in their own beds. "Took me at my word whin I said _bright an' early,_ eh?" A throaty chuckle, and three hands waving him inside the door. "Come in, come in, kiddo, I'll make ya some caff."

"I am sorry to disturb you," Obi-Wan hastily apologized. It was _hours_ past the time when the Temple's residents initiated their very busy daily agenda, and even longer since he had rolled off his own ascetical palette for pre-dawn meditation at Qui-Gon's side. He wondered if his boisterous host always slept late, and whether this fact had some occult connection to the fellow's obvious indigence. Surely there were few respectable professions that permitted such sloth? After all, the only people he had met who habitually kept such hours were pleasure workers, drunks, and politicians.

Which nicely proved his point.

"Get yer head outta the clouds!" Dex barked, chuckling merrily, thrusting a second serving of argees at his guest. Obi-Wan was obliged to grasp the enormous ceramic mug with both hands, feeling absurdly diminutive. "We gotta lot to do this mornin'.. now lemme see, where'd I stow all that junk?"

While the Besalisk rummaged in a set of built-in cupboards, Obi-Wan sipped delicately at his oversized bowl, opening his awareness to the Living Force in an attempt to penetrate further beneath his host's gruff exterior, to the heart within. Oddly enough, the reptilian's motives and emotions remained obscured, as though behind thickly tinted glass. "You're Force opaque!" he exclaimed – aloud, apparently.

Dex's wide lips curled into a sly smile as he glanced over one huge shoulder. "Tha's what ol' Qui-Gon says too. A Besalisk thing, he says… an' damn right, too. My skull's too thick fer all that mystical nonsense to penetrate rightly, is more like it."

It was more likely a species-specific quirk, but the padawan smiled gently at his new friend's self-assessment. "You're not the only one he considers thick-headed."

The wry assurance produced another gurgling bout of laughter. "Slow learner ain't how he put it to me, Obi-Wan," Dex replied, heaving a tattered crate out of his closet. "Stubborn as a bachelor gundark on th' prowl, sure as hells, and whats-it? _Irreverent,_ I think he said. S'what decided my mind. Can't work with no pious types, myself."

Which remark only fanned the flames of Obi-Wan's curiosity. "May I ask you a personal question, Dex?" He set the argees down upon a low table, watching in astonishment as the Besalisk dumped the contents of his crate all over the parlour floor – cybernetic components and electronic devices, engine parts and micro-tools, circuitry and spare parts rattled and rolled and bounced into an unruly diaspora. "Besides illegal weapons running, what are your other areas of expertise?"

It was fortunate that the reptilian had the fingers of four hands upon which to tick off his various pursuits and accomplishments, for he required most of them. "Ah.. lessee now. Well, besides the arms dealing gig, I done some mineral prospectin', some smugglin', stint as a mercenary soldier, worked with the circus a bit, done some polar subsurface minin', ran a racetrack out in the Meershuu district, played bodyguard, piloted a shippin' freighter, done some time in prison, had a used speeder business, was a travelin' salesman fer a while there, courier once or twice, odd jobs here an'there, don't wanna bother ya with the details, heh heh heh… mebbe when yer older, eh? – and lessee I dunno, t'all blends together a bit after a while, if ya see what I mean." A conspiratorial wink and a flare of the throatsack, one indicating private amusement.

In short, Dex was a man of the world. Or galaxy, as the case might be.

"Oh." A small bow to cover his confusion. "Master Qui-Gon did not elaborate on your background."

"I'll bet not!" the Besalisk chortled. "Tha's what I love about the man, now. Gets right to the core of a feller, he does – don't care about the inessentials an' sich, jist the .._heart."_

Stunned, Obi-Wan watched his lumbering host sort through the mess upon his worn carpets.

"What about you, kiddo, eh? What's on yer CV, now?"

"Some of those same things," the young Jedi admitted, with a pert grin.

Dex slapped his lower hands against his knees and flashed his alarming smile. "An' some other sketchy business as what you can't _share_ wit' me, eh?" he appended, slyly.

"Perhaps when you're older," Obi-Wan shot back, dead-pan, earning himself a delighted roar of laughter.

"Damned if you ain't an impertinent blighter jist like he said. Right now…lesseee… let's start with a bit o' sabotage know-how. That'll be useful in yer line o' work."

Just what did Dexter suppose a Jedi's vocation to consist in? Though admittedly such skills _had_ their uses - in a strictly ambassadorial capacity, of course. "I'm all attention, Master Dex."

The Besalisk winked broadly as they set to work on the day's lesson in very companionable spirits.


	19. Chapter 19

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Private Tutoring**

**Part 3**

Two weeks later, Qui-Gon Jinn's foul mood had mellowed into a mere undercurrent of annoyance at the universe in general and the Jedi Council in particular, a subtle riptide in the steady oceanic pulse of his wonted serenity. This delicate imperfection in the Master's demeanor and temperament was like a small knot in a the otherwise flawless grain of fine wood, a reminder that there was always much to be learned, further perfection to strive for, deeper wisdom in the Force to attain.

It was also extraordinarily tempting as a target for his apprentice's ironic wit.

"And what is the proposed subject of edification today?" he inquired of the young Jedi as they lingered over their morning tea.

A dervish-whirl of amusement spun somewhere in the Force about them. Obi-Wan demurely set his empty bowl upon its saucer. "Defusing trigger-detonated bombs, I believe."

"A useful skill, as you know."

The padawan nodded. "Yes, Master… Dex believes the best way to understand how to stop an imminent explosion is to know how to set it off, so we'll be studying various detonation techniques first."

"Very wise."

A flash of merriment again whipped just past the periphery of awareness. Obi-Wan's mouth quirked upward at one corner. "It has been a most productive two weeks, Master, would you not agree?"

"I am glad you have found it so, Padawan."

"Oh yes," Obi-Wan drawled, laying it on thick as blue butter over a fresh-baked scone. "At first, I will confess, I felt some resentment over the interruption to our normal training routine; but I remembered what you always tell me: _focus determines reality._ And so I've chosen to regard that the imposition as a great gift to be accepted with humility."

Qui-Gon's eyes narrowed, fuse shortening at an alarming rate. He set his own tea-bowl down. "Then you have learned more than one lesson along the way."

His apprentice's face stilled into the limpid calm of deep concentration, as for example of a man trying his best to set off an extremely fine-calibrated explosive. "Only by emulating your fine example, Master."

Beat. A muscle in Qui-Gon's jaw leapt. "I think it is time you were on your way, Padawan."

Obi-Wan rose to his feet with the supple alacrity of youth. His hands slid into opposite sleeves as he made his formal bow. "As you say, my Master. I am eager to embrace this opportunity for self improvement." And he beat an elegant retreat, leaving his mentor with a live time-bomb and very few seconds to spare.

"_Brat,"_ the Jedi Master snarled, closing his eyes and calling upon the all-merciful Force to soothe his temper and restore his vaunted tranquility before he faced another day of private tutoring at the Council's hands.

* * *

"Now then," Dexter Jettster rumbled, placidly setting the timer on his jimmy-rigged thermal detonator dummy back to two minutes flat. "Lessee you do it under pressure, eh? Tha's when it counts – when the chips is down."

"So long as you don't blindfold me," Obi-Wan grumbled, deftly turning the device between his fingers, a groove of concentration deepening between his brows. He delicately pried at the bomb's casing with a microdriver.

"Blindfold ya? What kinda chosski would do this in the dark?"

"Jedi apprentices learn to _everything _ without the use of sight, believe me," the padawan informed him, tightly, tongue caught between his teeth as he nudged at the miniscule interior circuitry. "And I mean everything."

"Target practice, too?" Dex asked, taking a leisurely sip of caff.

"_Everything_ is training, Dex." He levered the single thread of reactive tritanium wiring upward, careful not to let it discharge against the tool's metallic edge.

The Besalisk's rattling chuckle shook the cheap windowpanes. "Well, who knew? Jedi can even take a whiz better'n a normal feller. Never mind th'more _spiritual_ parts o'the job."

"There's no need to be envious," Obi-Wan assured his friend, grinning triumphantly as he slammed the deactivated explosive down upon the tabletop.

But Dex shook his head. "Sorry, ol buddy, but yer two seconds over time, see here? That means we got blown sky-high… won't make no difference t'all about yer superior aim."

The young Jedi sighed. "Blast."

"You know what they say," the reptilian chuffed, leaning back precariously on two legs of his creaking chair. "Try, try agin." He waved two hands at his struggling protégé. "Lessee you do it agin, this time without lettin' me distract ya."

Obi-Wan accepted the setback with all the patience requisite to his vocation and started his task anew, focus honed in upon the device's intricate entrails, pretending that this was a trap sprung in a mine shaft deep beneath Bandomeer's surface, or a timed explosive planted by a terrorist insurgency beneath a planetary capitol. _Lives depend on this,_ he projected to himself. _Do or do not._

Naturally, under such strenuous conditions, intuition and sheer desperation conspired to supplement any deficit in skill. The ranks of the Jedi Order were not swollen with those who cracked easily under pressure; Obi-Wan positively throve upon its ungenerous soil. He tossed the successively crippled device at his ruthless taskmaster with a snarl of visceral satisfaction. "Ha."

Dexter's toothsome smile rumpled his rough skin into delighted creases and valleys around his flickering gold eyes. "Well now," he beamed, "Tha's earned us some celebration, I think. Bit o' lunch on the house – an' don't gimme any malarkey about keepin' down to yer fightin' weight. You ain't got a spare scrap on yer bones."

He lumbered into the adjacent bedroom to fetch an ill-fitting garment with multiple sleeves, a sartorial monstrosity that passed as a kind of jacket once he had squeezed and wriggled his way into its confines like an arthritic contortionist. "Grab yer cloak, kiddo, 's freezing out there what with the weather regulator maintenance cycle. Why they can't do it in bleeding _summertime_ is beyond my ken."

"It _is_ summertime on half the planet," Obi-Wan patiently reminded him, flowing gracefully into his long outer robe. "I'm sure Weather Services will have nicely obliterated all traces of natural cycles again in a few days," he added, dryly.

This provoked a small appreciative chuckle. "Oh ho, you Jedi're all for _harmony_ wit' the universe an' all .. forgot about that. Whatd'ye do about it when nature up and bites ya in the arse, then?"

They initiated the ponderous descent down the stairs, the padawan courteously slowing his own springing gait to match that of his huffing companion. "Then we say it is the Will of the Force," he answered, recalling a few occasions when his own complaints about vicious insect bites or other inconveniences of climate or geological conditions had been met with just this blithe retort. "And if that doesn't hold water, then it becomes the Will of one's Master… and I assure you, the former is on the whole preferable. The Force has a rather less heavy-handed manner of emphasizing the incontrovertibility of its dictates.."

Dex groaned and wheezed his way into the lobby, where the dust layer lay as thick as ever, and the plastoid flowers seemed to wilt a few centimeters lower. "Will o' the Force, eh?" He shook his head, ushering them through the battered front door into the cold and litter-strewn pedestrian byway. "Dunno as I quite buy into that business… If there's a mystical energy field controlling my destiny, I ain't rightly ever felt it. It ain't tryin' hard enough to convince me, mebbe."

A beggar crouched in the shadows of the building's foundation; Dex rummaged in a pocket and brought forth a single datarie chit, which he promptly handed over with a small salute to his impecunious neighbor.

"Perhaps you can't feel it properly because you aren't open to it? Systematic doubt does not tend to invite revelation. It's rather like shoving fingers into your ears and then chastising your interlocutor for not enunciating clearly."

The Besalisk waved an amicable hand at him, snorting dismissively. "I don't got ears." He chortled at his own joke. Then, in a more sober vein, "Talk to me when ya done a few more circuits round the galaxy an' seen the same chiszzk I seen."

"Master Qui-Gon has a lifetime's experience to his credit, but he would most certainly take my part in the debate," Obi-Wan pressed, earnestly.

"Ah!" Dex threw up all four hands. "There's no reasonin' with a fanatic, now is there? An' yer like a pesky oblate fanatic, worse'n the rest." A rich chuckle. "Don't mind payin' for lunch now do ya? That was my last credit, ya see."

"Of course." The young Jedi risked a fleeting private smile. What his gregarious acquaintance lacked in metaphysical acumen he thoroughly compensated for in straightforward compassion – and who was to say this was not somehow a rare virtue? Certainly he could see the peculiar charisma that had drawn Qui-Gon to Dex's irrepressible character from the outset. "I have funds." He had a small sum of money on his person, provided by his master with the wise observation that _you do require a great deal of provender, Obi-Wan. Dex should not have to shoulder the burden of your sustenance unaided._

The Besalisk grinned hugely. "I know jist the place, then."

* * *

Qui-Gon Jinn stood and fretted upon the Temple's south hangar bay docking pad, with all the suppressed irritation and anxiety of an overprotective parent. His wry awareness of this fact did nothing to palliate his mood; what right had his padawan to reduce his esteemed mentor to such pathetic condition by his inexcusable tardiness?

When the transport finally pulled alongside the extended docking pad and deposited a solitary passenger upon the duracrete slab, he melted with relief and vexation.

Obi-Wan greeted him with raised eyebrows. "I _can_ find my way back to quarters without an escort, Master… though the welcoming party is very flattering."

The tall man ignored the dark bruise spreading along his student's left cheekbone and addressed the more obvious question first. "And what pray tell delayed you a full _five hours _ past your expected time of arrival?"

They strode through the interior hangar doors into the Temple's cool and faintly incensed inner halls. The younger man offered his companion another humorously bemused glance. "If I did not know better, Master, I would think you'd been reading an excess of pulp fiction. Not _every _alley and backroom storehouse on Coruscant harbors a Force-sensitive slave-ring kidnapper armed with exotic drugs and weaponry, just pining to get his hands on a ripe young Jedi padawan…. Though," he added with an air of bland abstraction, "I suppose I do present a tempting target in that respect."

Qui-Gon stopped him with an authoritative touch to the shoulder. "And what if you _did _ encounter such a person?" he chided, sternly.

"I would cut the barve's arm off," Obi-Wan snorted in disdain. "Please, Master."

Chuckling, half at his apprentice's pragmatic self-assurance and half at his own groundless paranoia, Qui-Gon fell into step beside him again.

"Very well, I stand corrected. And now let us hear the tale of your real and much less melodramatic adventures."

Obi-Wan grimaced. "It wasn't particularly glorious," he admitted. "Dex wanted to have lunch at a dive in the Belshuu district, and while we were there an altercation broke out between several of the other patrons. He jumped into the middle of the fight to break it up … and I , ah, felt obliged to come to his assistance." A small twist of the mouth. "Which may have been a mistake."

The Jedi master smiled in sympathy. "Had you ever seen a Besalisk in action, I believe you might have hesitated to insert yourself into the fray. But experience is a fine teacher. I take it your souvenir stems from the ensuing ruckus?"

The padawan touched his purpling cheekbone. "That was Dex's follow-through… let's just say I'm used to a tandem dueling partner with a great deal more kinesthetic awareness."

"I'm glad to hear it – had you permitted a common street ruffian get under your guard in a mere fistfight, I would have been obliged to impose a stiff penalty for lack of focus."

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. "Yes, Master. Anyway, by the time the local authorities had sorted out the mess and taken our reports, I had missed the last express magtrain. And then I had to wait for the next green-line, which was delayed… and here I am. Five hours late. I hope your day was more instructive than mine – though we did make a deal of progress before lunch."

Qui-Gon's evasive reply was eloquent. "Perhaps today is one of those occasions when we ought to commit the past to the past and dwell in the present moment?"

"Yes, Master," his padawan heartily agreed, as they turned their steps toward the indoor arboretum and the soothing paths of its meditation labyrinth.

* * *

Obi-Wan presented himself for "school" with exacting punctuality the following morning, having charmed and cajoled the tech bursar into loaning him a high-grade Temple datapad for the day. He ascended Dex's rickety stairwell in three fluid bounds, this treasure tucked beneath one arm and the aforesaid master's crisp exhortation regarding _appropriate use of the Order's resources_ tucked into a back corner of his mind, only to find the Besalisk's threshold already filled by the greasy superfluity of a short, rotund man.

This individual had one finger thrust up into the reptilian's face, wagging back and forth in tempo with his words. "I have the law on my side, Jettster. You know I'm within my rights to evict you this instant. I've been patient, but that money is far overdue and I want it on my desk tomorrow morning or you'll find your scaly butt out on the street where it belongs. Never shoulda rented to non-human trash!"

Dex for his part had all four hands raised pacifically, though his throat sack was bulging with contained ire.

"Excuse me," Obi-Wan interrupted.

The furious landlord whirled on the spot. "And who the hell do you think you …" His voice trailed off as his eyes lighted upon the 'saber hilt. "Oh, chisszk. I got the paperwork filled out – you gotta give a guy a minute now, I know the law, I got thirty days to comply, they can't use intimidation tactics on me like this," he stammered, backing to the peeling wall.

The young Jedi made a small gesture with his right hand. "You don't need to bother Mr. Jettster any further."

"I don't need to bother him any more."

"Move along."

The man shuffled and stumped his way down the stairs, casting furtive looks over one shoulder before he disappeared beneath the third floor landing. Obi-Wan shrugged and slipped past Dex into the Besalisk's shabby apartment.

"Hey," his hulking comrade muttered, exuding a palpable embarrassment. "I think I owe ya one there. Sorry ya had to see that bit'o ugliness."

"I saw nothing," the young Jedi assured him. "And I have a datapad here with a processor big enough to run a starship."

Dex's drooping spirits perked up immediately. "Well, then, come in! Come in! Tha's jist what we need today. Ever hacked into a municipal power grid afore? No? Well, today's yer lucky day. I got the Zetla coil all set up proper on the roof, an' we'll git to work jist after a cuppa Jawa juice. Want some?"

"Oh yes. Please."

"Right then," Dex chuckled, rubbing two hands together while the others served up fresh argees. "This'll knock yer Jedi socks clean off, heh heh heh. Jist you wait'n see."


	20. Chapter 20

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Private Tutoring**

**Part 4**

That evening the metropolitan subdistrict surrounding Dexter Jettster's residence suffered a sudden and inexplicable power outage, one that effectively shut down three local power generators and kept the droid maintenance squads busy well into the night. Public transportation hubs were greatly impacted as the magrail system guidance tractors overloaded, creating a fractious mob on the platforms and in the now crowded and lightless streets.

Dex, of course, had outfitted himself with a small portable generator and was therefore relatively unaffected. But "Yer gonna have a heckuva time getting' back to yer Temple," he pointed out to his Jedi guest. "This sector's low priority fer repairs'n all. Trains won't be runnin' till tomorrer an' the aircars'll be packed wit' other folks."

Obi-Wan finished erasing the datapad's recent memory and frowned out the greasy window at the dusking cityscape. "Good point. I'll have to call for someone to come fetch me." He fished his commlink out of its belt pouch.

"Suit yerself, but yer welcome to stay here if ya don't mind slummin' it," Dex rumbled. "I gotta camp bunk stashed away somewhere, an' ye won't have to fret about commutin' back here in the mornin'."

The prospect of Dex's hospitality was alluring, if only for its sheer novelty. "I'll let Master Qui-Gon know."

The Besalisk made himself busy sorting through his closets in search of spare blankets while Obi-Wan waited for his comm signal to be routed through to the Temple.

"Don't tell me you've managed to embroil yourself in another fight," the Jedi master's deep voice greeted him, without preliminaries.

"No, Master… but there's been a disruption in the power grid. The magtrains are shut down until repairs are effected. I'll be spending the night here."

A pregnant pause answered this declaration. "Disrupted power grid. Do I want to ask?"

"No, Master. I do not think that would be a good idea."

"I see." Another silence, in which both parties contemplated the relative benefits of ignorance versus knowledge. "Very well then. Give my regards to Dex."

"Yes, Master." The young Jedi closed the link with a wry grimace, well aware that a more thorough discussion of the power grid debacle had only been postponed until the Temple's privacy afforded suitable occasion for a relentless inquisition.

"Right then!" Dex exclaimed. "How bout a little night cap to steel our nerves an' all afore Coruscant police come a knockin'?"

"That's not funny, Dex."

"So yes, is what ya mean.' The hospitable Besalisk measured out two brobdignagian tumblers of liqueur and handed one to his guest. "Bottoms up! Yer health." He tipped the contents of his own glass back and collapsed into the sagging armchair.

The padawan choked down a sticky-sweet, burning mouthful and settled opposite his host. Warmth blossomed beneath his ribs, and the Force opened a bit, like a slow unfurling flower. He thought he could _almost_ feel Dex's signature, a mellow and resonant note echoing in the plenum just below his perceptual threshold. "Dex," he asked, curious, "What are you doing here on Coruscant? Besides private tutoring, I mean."

The reptilian's throat sack swelled a little. "Pursuin' my dreams, like."

"Here?" It was hard to expunge the skepticism from his tone.

Dex laughed, then. "Nah, nah – I'm at the bottom end o' starting over, if you take my meanin.' This is just temp'rary. What I'd like to do, now…" He gestured expansively with his three free hands. "I'd like to settle a bit. Open a respectable business fer a change. Thinking a nice little diner someplace on the transport circuit. Make some honest cash, set some aside. I got a widdered sister'n five or six little nices n' nephews, ya know. Like to do right by 'em someday."

"Oh." Obi-Wan let the flavor of this foreign ambition settle in, like the strong taste of alcohol lingering on his tongue.

"How bout you, kiddo? Ya got a dream o' yer own, I don't doubt it."

"Well, of course. I aspire to be a Jedi Knight. It's all I've ever wanted."

"Jist like Qui-Gon, eh?" Dex prompted, perspicaciously.

But Obi-Wan was – barely- past the age of abject hero worship. "Perhaps not _exactly _ like Master Qui-Gon," he replied, with a tiny quirk of the mouth. "He does have rather a maverick's reputation."

This delighted their mutual friend. "I believe it!" he guffawed. "An' you don't want no part o' that, now? He said as much to me: gots this feelin' ye'll end on the Whatsit… Council, tha's right, issuin' edicts against yer old senile master fer his heresy and insubordination. Right funny image, that."

Qui-Gon said _what?_ The man's apprentice had to remind himself that the Beslisk had been drinking and his testimony was not therefore reliable. But the intimation that he would _ever_ publicly censure his master for his roguish interpretation of the Code, or anything else, still hurt. "I wouldn't !" he protested, the drink loosing his own tongue.

Dex's draconic features softened. "Now, now," he soothed the affronted padawan. "Don't git yer dander up. The ol' man loves ya, an' tha's a fact."

The other unfortunate effect of alcohol was its tendency to bring a vibrant scarlet flush to one's cheeks.

Dex heaved himself up and hitched his trousers back into place. "I'm jist about tuckered out," he declared, jerking his head at the cot set up in one corner of the parlor. "Gotta get my beauty rest, as it were." He chuckled a bit, waddled a few paces toward his cramped bedroom, and then paused to address his guest one more time. "Yer a good lad, Obi-Wan."

And for some reason, though the compliment was still far from his own private standard of absolute perfection, the words had a different and altogether welcome meaning when spoken from the depths of Dexter Jettster's honest heart.

* * *

The night was doomed to be restless.

The first time a knock sounded on the front door, Obi-Wan rolled off his less-than-comfortable cot, threw his tunic on without wrapping it closed, and padded to the front entrance to answer the summons.

"Jettster!" the irate landlord bellowed, only to be struck silent by the sight of a disheveled and glowering Jedi apprentice framed in the doorway. "Oh, er… never mind."

"Can I help you?" Obi-Wan threatened.

"No, Master Jedi, sir. Just wanted to be sure the tenants had, uh, everything they need. What with the power outages."

"We're fine. Your _concern_ is deeply appreciated," came the flat response.

The squat man nodded, bobbing up and down on his heels and attempting to peer over the padawan's shoulder into the dim-lit space beyond. "So…uh… you Jedi got some kinda connection to this guy?" he asked. "I mean, something I should be aware of… you know?"

Obi-Wan's brows rose.

The landlord cleared his throat. "Right. Ahem. Just, ah, you know. Good night." And he bolted away down the stairs, the reek of cheap fermented _zoor_ lingering in his wake.

The young Jedi flopped back upon his hard mattress, seized the frayed blankets, and rolled himself into a warm cocoon.

* * *

The next time an authoritative rapping sounded against the panel, it roused him from a pleasant dream in which he was on the brink of convincing Ben To Li of his utter folly regarding the historical causes of the first Siege of Yanso. The obstreperous healer had been on the point of capitulating, nearly yielding the debate to his opponent's superior rhetorical skill, when the illusion was shattered by the insistent thumping of metallic hands against cheap plastoid.

"Coruscant Security," a warbling voice announced.

"Oh _blast,"_ Obi-Wan grumbled, raking his hair into outraged spikes. He retrieved his cloak from the floor and managed to swath himself in its voluminous folds before finally sweeping the door open with a flick of his hand.

A droid investigator and two low grade enforcer bots stood upon the threshold. "Excuse us, sir," the detective bot droned. "Our system analysis shows an unexplained power surge originating from this building's rooftop at eighteen hundred hours. We need to investigate."

"Oh. Of course. The access ladder is just through here." He politely ushered the taskforce through the front hall and into the kitchen nook where a maintenance hatch was set into the ceiling.

When the droids had awkwardly ascended to the starry-skied sanctuary above, Dex dared peek his ridged head form behind his own door. "Whaddid they want?" he rasped.

"To have a look at the roof." It would avail them nothing; all evidence of the Zetla coil had long since been obliterated. The conspirators shared a guilty grin.

* * *

The third time a pounding on the door jerked him roughly from slumber's embrace, Obi-Wan was not pleased. He sprang to the portal and irritably released the latching mechanism a split second before the Force's warning registered in his groggy mind. As a result, the blaster bolt singed very close indeed to his shoulder as he ducked, and he was obliged to disarm the first intruder with his bare hands.

The thug grunted, staggering backward into his mates as the young Jedi summoned his 'saber into his grip and brandished the growling sapphire blade in a warning arc.

"You don't want trouble," he warned the posse of hulking assailants.

But another knot of them had already forced entry through the back door.

"You lizard-faced barve! Mess with my cuz, willya? I'll kill ya!"

Dex stumbled out of his own room to be greeted by the furious relations of the brawlers from yesterday's confrontation at the cheap eatery. "Hey now!" he hollered, eyeing the blaster-wielding gang with baleful expression.

Caught between an unarmed innocent and a half-dozen or more murderous brigands, Obi-Wan had no choice but to launch into explosive action. He backflipped into position between Dex and the hostile intruders, 'saber blade screaming hot in his hand, carving a blinding ribbon of light as he deflected shots, severed weapons, showered down a hurricane of defensive strikes at the panicked foe. Cacophonous sound shattered the night's peace; blaster burns scored the walls and ceiling; men shrieked and wailed, bodies hit the windowpanes and floor; a minute later, seven vanquished assailants moaned and clutched at their injuries, while the padawan ended in a low crouch, 'saber still thrumming with merciless purity in an unwavering line above his head.

"Hooooly chisszk, kiddo," Dex remarked, surveying the damage, and the one severed arm smoldering darkly upon his worn carpet. "Yer liable to give a guy a coronary wit' that stuff." He thumped his young friend upon the bare back. "Not that it ain't pretty to see."

Naturally, the inept police droids reappeared as though on cue, to clean up the mess and take the unfortunate malefactors into custody.

Dex and his guest went back to bed with the firm intention of making up for lost time.

* * *

The fourth and final time the front door was nearly pounded off its pressure pistons, Obi-Wan opted to ignore it. He burrowed deeper beneath his threadbare coverlet and listened to Dex's heavy footfalls padding from the kitchenette where he was doubtlessly brewing the day's first pot of caff, to the front door.

"Mornin'!" the Besalisk cheerfully greeted whatever inexcusably rude visitor had chosen to pay his respects at this Sithly hour.

Obi-Wan shot upright, immediately sensing the newcomer's bright presence in the Force.

"I hope I'm not interrupting your morning meditations, Padawan."

The latter person hastily straightened his spine and stood at attention, toes curling in his host's carpets as Qui-Gon Jinn's all-too-discerning gaze raked over him.

"Hm," the Jedi master remarked, gracefully collapsing upon the battered orange recliner.

"Hope ya didn't have trouble getting' here," Dex rumbled, "Caff?"

"I came in a private Temple vehicle – and I've brought tea, Dex."

Their enormous host's eyes widened in delight. "O' course ya did! Well, now, I'll just mix us up a pot then?" He accepted the packet of delicate dried leaves and lumbered back into the kitchen, leaving master and apprentice alone in the parlour.

"Have a seat, Obi-Wan."

"I- I'm surprised to see you here, Master." The padawan perched nervously upon the edge of his camp-bunk, hoping that Qui-Gon had not violated the terms of his own probation in order to visit a measure of disciplinary wrath upon his own student's head.

The Jedi master seemed to read his thoughts, as always. "You fret too much, young one," he chuckled, crossing his long shanks and leaning back luxuriantly into the faded upholstery of his chosen throne. "The Council has decided to release me from my term of service early… and I thought I might check in on your progress."

"Oh. Yes, Master."

"You do not have some dire confession to make, do you, Padawan?" Qui-Gon continued, shrewdly.

"Ah…no. Well, not exactly. It's complicated."

"I see." And the mischievous glint in the older man's eyes proclaimed that he did indeed see, quite a bit. But at that moment Dex erupted back into the room, bearing a chipped tea-pot and a tray of mismatched bowls. "Splendid. Thank you, Dex."

"You gotta pretty smart kid there, Qui-Gon ol' buddy. Coulda been a dangerous man in another life, I reckon."

The Jedi master fixed his apprentice with a darkly amused look as he sampled his tea. "I shall have to take such proclivities into account in his further education," he observed. "A good example is everything, would you not agree, Padawan?"

"Yes, Master." Obi-Wan was far too prudent to risk any other reply.

* * *

Before they took their leave, Qui-Gon paid Dexter a handsome sum for his exclusive tutoring services. "And the power outage last night, Dex… do I want to know?"

The Besalisk pocketed his remuneration and grinned slyly. "You keep the Jedi wisdom an' I'll keep the knowledge, eh?" he winked. "Now you take care o' yerself, Obi-Wan. Mebbe I'll see ya again soon."

"We'll be in touch when we can, Dex," Qui-Gon promised. "May the Force be with you."

But Dexter Jettster swept their formal bow into a double rib-crushing hug, one broad and joyful enough to nearly asphyxiate two strapping Jedi. "My pleasure," he beamed, waving with all four hands as master and apprentice descended his groaning front steps.

Obi-Wan inserted himself into the aircar's piloting seat with an impertinent smile. "With your permission."

"Enjoy the illusion of control while you can, Obi-Wan. We have much to discuss upon our return."

The padawan's shoulders slumped downward a notch, but he lifted them into Corsuscant's frenetic traffic lanes with chin held high and eyes bright. "I'm very glad you sent me to Dex for _lessons,"_ he informed Qui-Gon. "You were right – he had much to teach."

"And I think he might have learned a thing or two as well. He told me you had him halfway converted to what he terms a _mystical outlook."_

The younger Jedi's mouth twisted ruefully. "Halfway," he repeated. "I'm sorry I could not manage any better. It would have been better had you played apologist. I did try-"

"There is no try. And have you considered perhaps that it is not your words so much as your simple _being_ that is the most eloquent testimonial? I chose my rhetorical gambit very carefully."

Obi-Wan pondered this carefully. "I _was_ your argument?"

Qui-Gon casually contemplated the skyline, allowing his student claim his own wisdom.

The apprentice Jedi changed topics smoothly. "You paid Dex quite a lot, Master."

The tall man's eyes crinkled into a smile. "I understand he has been having difficulty meeting the rent. This should tide him over for a while… and besides, he earned a king's ransom. You are not a docile student, Obi-Wan, let us be honest. And I have been sparing thus far with the stipend set aside for your education. It might as well go to a worthy cause."

"You used _Republic funds_ to compensate Dex for teaching me how to..."

"Yes?"

"Nothing, Master."

"I paid one of my pathetic life forms to help another one. A neat solution, Padawan."

And since there was no dignified answer to be made to this latter assertion, Obi-Wan made none. They flew on, into the bright variegated morning, until the sun's laughing nimbus swallowed them into the distance.

**Finis**


	21. Chapter 21

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Worthy of Inclusion**

"Archivist Nu desired this to be delivered to Master Jinn," the courier announced, all crisp professionalism.

"Thank you." Obi-Wan Kenobi dismissed the mild-mannered docent with a short bow of thanks and allowed the door to slide shut on quiet pistons.

He was halfway across the room when an elusive fluttering in the Force's currents brought him to a pensive halt. One brow raised, he glanced down at the seemingly innocuous data-pad in his hand. It was a Temple standard issue device, not security coded or imprinted with a personal reader's code. Nothing classified or of a private nature, then.

He hesitated all the same, prurience and innate courtesy at odds with one another. Madame Nu had sent this to _Qui-Gon, _ not the revered Jedi's apprentice_; _on the other hand, the Force told him it was somehow relevant to himself.

"Blast it."

He flipped the display on and perused the contents, a sharp line appearing between his brows as he read.

* * *

Qui-Gon Jinn returned briefly to quarters in the early afternoon, thinking to refresh his spirit with a short meditation. The Temple's serenity seeped into his body as he traversed the hallways, cleansing the superficial irritation of his morning away. A brief communion with the Living Force, and he would be able to forget his brush with political intrigue entirely.

"The Supreme Chancellor sends his regards."

Obi-Wan's respectful bow of greeting ended in a wry smile. "He is very kind. Considering he knows me not at all."

The tall man threw his cloak across the low table. "Ah, but you are apprenticed to _me,_ and so you must be a Person of Significance."

Far be it from a young man of Obi-Wan's circumspection to speak ill of Valorum or any one of the Senate's august members. His eyes slid sideways, sharing his thoughts with the Force alone.

Qui-Gon snorted in amusement and went to prepare tea. "I thought you were attending Master Bondara's practicum today."

A shrug, which he felt rather than saw. He crumbled leaves into the pot, reverently, with mindfulness.

"He won't let me attend the Senior Padawan section any longer. He says I'm to meet the junior Knights tomorrow instead."

_That's my boy. "_And why do I sense disgruntlement with this arrangement? You cannot learn unless you are suitably challenged."

"Master Yoda showed up to their last practice session. He said arrogance had become a way of life among the temple's junior ranks and then proceeded to bestow marks of wisdom upon all and sundry. Prudence dictates that I keep my head down, lest I incur his wrath for presumption."

"He has been especially cantankerous of late," Qui-Gon observed, dispassionately. "But this has no bearing upon your 'saber training. You can meet with the younger Knights tomorrow. I should like to observe the proceedings, anyhow."

"Yes, Master." How anyone could infuse this simple phrase with such a nuanced and specific spectrum of meanings was a mystery to the older man; in this case, the traditional words suggested _I-still-deem-this-a-bad-idea-but-will-take-greater -pleasure-in-proving-it-to-you-later-than-disputin g-the-point-now._

He raised both eyebrows repressively and poured two bowls of amber liquid. "It was I who wasted his morning in the company of politicians. What has _you_ so out of sorts, Padawan?"

Obi-Wan shifted into evasive tactics without missing a beat. "I was looking forward to an afternoon in the salles," he pouted.

"Hm." Qui-Gon was by no means so easily misled, but in this case the thin excuse was happily consonant with his own mood. "I think we can remedy that."

"Yes, Master." In this instance, the meek words implied _oh-good-let's thrash-each-other-into-the-floorboards-in-lieu-of- this-conversation-I-don't-wish-to-have._

The tall man smiled dangerously.

* * *

It took a good deal longer than anticipated to exorcise their respective demons through the purgative means of unbridled saber-play; by the time they were mutually reduced to soaked and panting disarray, the chime for evening meal had long since sounded.

But even a hefty repast shared in the now nearly empty refectory did not serve to entirely dispel the young Jedi's preoccupation. 'Master," he tentatively began, "I have been wondering about the Annals."

Qui-Gon laid his utensils precisely upon his empty plate and lifted his tea-bowl. "Yes?"

His padawan leaned back, folding his arms across his chest and fixing the older man with an earnest gaze. "Who decides what is worthy of inclusion?"

"Ah." The tall man stretched his aching legs out beneath the table, eliciting a loud pop from either knee joint. He held up a warning finger at his smirking protégé. "Do not say it." A thoughtful pause in which he reflected that Obi-Wan kept him on his feet on more than one sense. Not only must he meet the physical demands of a surpassingly talented sparring partner, but he was also liable to be bombarded with deep philosophical or ethical conundra at any time of day or night. "The Annals of the Jedi Order is an evolving historical document." He formulated his reply cautiously, wondering what had been the catalyst to this inquiry. "The collective wisdom of generations, or the explicit decree of the Council, might dictate that some event or accomplishment be included – generally feats which are admirable, exceptional in circumstance, or edifying in their consequence, whether for good or ill."

"I know that, Master," Obi-Wan impatiently retorted, shifting restlessly in his seat.

When the Jedi master raised an admonitory brow, his apprentice hastily amended his tart reply.

"Yes, Master." Meaning _I-already-know-that-master-and-I-will-continue-to- pester-and-cajole-by-whatever-means-necessary-unti l-I-achieve-my-objective._

Qui-Gon permitted himself a short sigh of resignation. "You are asking who is the final authority in the matter. The best answer is, perhaps, the Force itself."

Now Obi-Wan's mouth thinned into the familiar stubborn line, one echoed by the crease deepening between his brows.

"That does not satisfy you?" The Jedi master's eyes narrowed. "What is this really about?"

A deep breath, as though antecedent to taking a flying leap. "Master… do you think it possible that a particular event might be mistakenly included? I mean, that a historical account may not reflect the truth of what occurred? That is –"

"Obi-Wan."

The padawan caught himself in mid-sentence, a flush of perturbation rising in his cheeks.

Qui-Gon decided to tread carefully until he had divined the true cause of his apprentice's unease. "If there is something you have read in your studies which confounds you, some article of the Annals which offends your sensibilities, then perhaps it would be wiser to attribute the difficulty not to an _error_ on the part of the Council, but to your own inexperience? For instance, perhaps some narrative has been included not because it is worthy of emulation but because it teaches a lesson; or perhaps another is a riddle to be unwound by the reader. Who are you to dictate which parts of the Annals are accurate or useful?"

Generally, such a direct appeal to humility would infallibly clinch any argument; it was surprising, therefore, when the gentle reprimand had no effect but to stir Obi-Wan into a greater state of disturbance.

"I – I did not mean to imply I have superior insight, Master… it's just…" A servitor droid hovered by, whisking their soiled dishes away. The young Jedi stood. "With your permission, Master, I shall return to the salles."

"Sit down a moment, please."

"Yes, Master." _You-can-make-me-sit-but-you-cannot-bend-my-mind-to -a-truth-until-I-am-ready-to-see-it._

The tall man studied his companion closely, gently probing with Force. "Is this something I can help you solve or would meditation be a better recourse?"

"Perhaps the latter," Obi-Wan answered, morosely.

Qui-Gon could not help but shake his head quizzically. There was something to be said for the cathartic effect of physical exertion, after all. "Very well. Let us put in a couple more hours' practice. I want you in top form tomorrow – if Master Yoda is to distribute any gifts of wisdom, he should at least have to work for it a _little."_

This unsophisticated distract and delay gambit earned him a brilliant grin of relief.

* * *

Three and a half hours later, they dragged themselves over the threshold of their shared quarters, still damp from the shower rooms and both sporting a few novel bruises.

"I don't _need_ Master Yoda to show up tomorrow," Obi-Wan groaned, gracefully sinking to the floor beside the low common room table. "I've a surfeit of _wisdom_ from tonight's session already."

Qui-Gon grimaced. "The partnership is right when the student teaches his teacher. I , too, walked away a wiser man."

"Yes, Master." Which translated to _Ha!-and-you-deserve-it._

Concord settled between them, a blanket of comfortable silence.

The padawan's head nodded. He jerked to attention. "I'm sorry… I do not think I will be able to meditate this evening. I think we overdid it."

The Jedi master ruefully agreed. "And it is unclear who is to be credited with instilling that bad habit into the other."

Another amicable span of quiet. Qui-Gon was about to suggest that they retire, when his apprentice broke the silence again.

"Master? Earlier, when we were discussing the Annals…"

_Oh Force._ The Archival database definition of 'indefatigable' should be amended to simply read: _Kenobi. _ "Yes?"

"I was struck by a disturbing thought. What if the heroes and sages who inspire our admiration and praise were not truly as their stories present them? What if the noblest Jedi in the Order's history are – well, a fabrication, a legend- I mean, so far as their deeds and character are concerned? While their true persons were as flawed and marked with failure as possible? What if the virtues catalogued in the Annals are merely projected ideals and not true examples, attainable goals? What if… what if it's a pretty lie?"

Impulsively, Qui-Gon covered the boy's hand with his own, seeking to soothe inner anguish. "That," he sadly replied, "Is the beginning of wisdom."

More anguish. Bitter disappointment. The padawan dipped his head.

Obi-Wan did not follow without thinking, and was wont to brood – but corrosive doubt had never before been his modus operandi. "The _beginning_ of wisdom, Padawan," Qui-Gon pressed. "Not its end. Let us take your favorite example."

"Chakora Seva," Obi-Wan intoned, despondent.

"Yes. It is possible all the tales told about his feats and insight are exaggerations and fables, stories to shape the sensibilities of the gullible and young, beautiful lies to inspire passion for things that are above our true mortal condition. He may have been none of the things he is famed for."

A sharp nod.

"But search your feelings. There is the mind and then there is the heart. What does your heart tell you?"

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, new hope dawning where despair had threatened to make conquest. "That he was… full of Light. That at least by the end of his life, all those things were true. And more, more that is not recorded in the Annals."

"Yes. And you know this because beyond mere narrative, the truth of his life shines in his teachings and especially those who followed him, his l_iving_ annals." The tall man gestured around them, at the walls of the Temple, all those sheltered within. "Trust your feelings in this matter; you _are_ inclined to overthink such things."

He thought for a moment that his padawan might throw himself into his arms in a fierce embrace, a startling flood of gratitude and affection. Instead, the young man merely lowered his eyes and said, "Yes, Master."

_Thank you. Thank you. I see now._

"You really ought to get to bed. You're half asleep as it is."

"Yes, Master." Meaning simply: _Yes, Master._

* * *

It might have been wiser simply to have heeded his own advice, but Qui-Gon remained wakeful long after his apprentice had disappeared into his small bedchamber. A tiny unresolved question niggled at the back of his mind, rendering true relaxation elusive. He tidied the already tidy rooms, tended his small collection of flora, and then noticed the datapad left for him upon a low-set shelf. He flipped the reader into active mode and scanned the initial message.

_Master Jinn. The following officially recorded in the Annals of the Jedi Order, per Council decision. For your information. Jocasta Nu._

He opened the attached file and skimmed through the brief entry, one detailing a recent mission to Sundari. The details of the Phylaxi plague crisis – had it already been a year and more?- and the delicate negotiations needful to eventually resolve it were familiar to him. He recognized the names of the planetary leaders, and the ultimatum that held an entire population hostage to the demands of a blood honor pact. The short narrative ended with an account of the Jedi ambassadors' actions, including those of the Padawan who had offered to fulfill the terms of this blood-ritual with his own life rather than countenance the death of millions.

Qui-Gon released his breath in a sudden gust of clarity. Of course.

Of course.

He strode across the apartment and slipped quietly into his apprentice's small room, but Obi-Wan was well and soundly asleep, spread-eagled upon his thin palette, face smoothed into the tranquility of exhausted slumber.

There was no need to disturb him.

The man smiled a little, a bittersweet incense seeming to float upon the Force' s currents as he grasped the root of his student's questions and doubts. There was much, much to learn, and so many ways to learn it. So many lessons, and some of them provided by time and fate, the Force itself. Only Obi-Wan would be mortified and perturbed by the discovery that his actions had been deemed worthy of inclusion in the Annals of the Jedi Order.

Qui-Gon gently fingered the padawan braid, pushing it aside onto the pillow, and tried to imagine what Obi-Wan would look like without it, on the day he was Knighted. Much the same, only older, he supposed. And someday, perhaps, even old. Or revered, like the heroes of ancient days that he so adored and strove to emulate. Like the legendary sages immortalized forever in the Annals of a ten thousand year history.

As though in subconscious response to the thought, Obi-Wan shifted, making a sound like a soft, derisive snort.

"Brat," the tall man fondly murmured, and padded away to claim his own well-deserved repose.

_Author's Note: events referred to in the Annals entry are detailed further in "When Words Fail," at this same ff account._


	22. Chapter 22

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Silence is Golden**

"But if _that_ were the case," Obi-Wan chattered animatedly, "then what possible cause could there be for the Ka'Darrach's decision to annex both moons? It would be very foolish, strategically speaking. Obviously, there was some ulterior motive beyond the stated reasons concerning dynastic succession."

"Obviously," Qui-Gon Jinn agreed, amiably enough. Internally, he wondered how much more prattle about the fourth Teth conflict he could tolerate. It behooved a master to encourage his apprentice to seek knowledge and expand his horizons through discussion and debate…. But there were limits.

Weren't there?

His very young protege was in mettlesome form this evening, very high spirits – he felt it incumbent upon himself, in his role as Jedi mentor, to bring some emotional balance. "Still, I am sure Master Li has good reasons for his opinion."

"Master Li is _delusional,"_ the padawan confidently declared, jogging into the lift behind his mentor. "The historical evidence is overwhelming; in fact-" he stopped when the tall man reached out and grasped him firmly by the chin. "…Master?"

"Ben To Li is fifty years your senior, Obi-Wan," the Jedi master admonished. "It ill becomes you to speak so disrespectfully of him, whether in his presence or out of it."

The firm reprimand hit home, eliciting a furious blush. The young Jedi fell silent, eyes fixed upon the floor and mouth pressed into an unhappy line. Shame bled through the Force in melting waves, but Qui-Gon could not help feeling a tiny flicker of gratitude for the _silence_ of their remaining journey.

When they attained the entrance to their shared quarters, he relented. "If the matter is of such interest to you, Padawan, I suggest composing a short essay. The written word is a superior medium for such discourse; it enables the proponents of each view to fully explicate their perspectives." _Without talking their masters' ears off._

"It is not of consequence, truly," Obi-Wan murmured, the color in his cheeks deepening. "May I be excused?"

The tall man waved his acquiescence, watching his mortified student flee into his own small room –purportedly to study, though it was doubtful he had many assignments to complete this early in the class rotation. The sudden tightening of mental shields, felt as a subtle dampening of the Force between them, proclaimed that the young Jedi had in fact settled in for an intensive session of brooding. He would let that proceed uninterrupted for precisely one hour – enough time for some useful introspective knowledge to precipitate, but not long enough for the boy to descend into outright self loathing.

He was developing a finely nuanced _feel_ for Obi-Wan's moods- powerful elemental forces, all of them, in need of strict guidance.

He made tea and settled into his own task – an overdue summary of that business on Palatar 5 – reveling in the _quiet hush_ that reigned in his quarters. He had lived alone, when not on solo missions, for many years, and even Xanatos in his late teen years had been taciturn, reclusive, no source of vexation in that regard. A prick of conscience – _am I selfish?- _ brought him up short. Was he simply not patient enough with his occasionally garrulous thirteen year old student?

He rose and tapped on the smaller bedroom's door. "That's enough," he ordered. "Come out here and have tea."

Mandate, not invitation. The boy appeared a minute later, still studiously contemplating the floor. He presented himself for court martial, but Qui-Gon was not playing that game tonight.

"Drink," he suggested, sitting down at the low table himself.

"I wish to apologize for my behavior," Obi-Wan insisted, apparently determined to stand until justice had been visited upon the perpetrator. "It is not my place to pass judgment on Master Li's mental faculties, even if he _is _ delusional."

The Jedi master smiled at the sincere half-apology. "I see. I am glad you have realized this. Now sit, and let us discuss this without acrimony."

The padawan sat, cagily assessing his master's mood. So the flippant young akk had learned that much, at least. Qui-Gon made a point of drinking his tea with studied placidity, waiting until his slow motions were at least perfunctorily imitated.

"Now," He said, when some of the unease had simmered away into the Force, "Tell me what it was that led you to speak so thoughtlessly. A Jedi – especially in his role as peacekeeper and diplomat – must not speak in haste or without due consideration of consequence."

"Yes, Master." Miserable again, Obi-Wan proceeded to scowl at the tabletop.

"Nor should he be miserly with his reply when asked a direct question by his master," Qui-Gon reminded him. "Balance in all things."

Heavy sigh. "Yes, Master. I spoke without thought earlier because I let my focus be carried away by the abstract problem – by the argument. I- I was too excited."

"You were swept up in your own eloquence," Qui-Gon concluded. "Or your passion for the subject matter. Neither of these are negative qualities, padawan, but if they outweigh your prudence, then they become serious flaws."

"I understand, Master." A hopeful glance in the direction of his own room, but the Jedi master was not about to let him descend unchecked into a renewed bout of brooding. When the hoped for dismissal did not materialize, his face fell. "Is there more you wish to say to me on the matter?"

"That would be somewhat hypocritical, do you not think?"

This at least earned him the glimmer of a smile.

"Instead of beating a dead bantha, let us simply agree that this lesson would best be taught through practical example. Tomorrow, sunup to sundown, you will not speak."

Obi-Wan's eyes widened in outrage. "But-!"

"Do not commit the blunder of proving me too lax," Qui-Gon warned. "This is about _custody_ of the tongue."

Mutinously thinned mouth, accenting stubbornly dimpled chin. But discipline held, thus far. "Yes, Master."

"Good. Now off you go – you have permission to brood at will." After all, he might as well enjoy a peaceful evening.

* * *

They made it through dawn meditation and breakfast quite well, and in amicable silence. There was a brief complication when Obi-Wan discovered that his comlink had gone AWOL, but he managed to wordlessly convey the source of his distress to Qui-Gon, who paged the wayward device , thus revealing its place of concealment deep inside the laundry receptacle.

The resulting lecture on mindfulness was endured in equally stoic silence. The tall man began to think he could grow accustomed to this new arrangement.

They parted ways for the morning, Obi-Wan trudging with a certain dramatic slump of the shoulders toward his assigned academic sessions, where the ban on speech would prove most challenging, Qui-Gon to the Archives and senior level salles.

When they reconvened at the hour of midday meal, the padawan morosely filled his tray and slid into a seat opposite his master, glittering eyes hinting at banked defiance.

"How was your morning?" Qui-Gon innocently inquired. "I understand you attended a history lecture."

A terse nod.

"Excellent. And mathematics?"

Lifted brows, conveying textured disdain.

"I think I shall keep you with me this afternoon," Qui-Gon decided. "The better to teach you, my young padawan."

Obi-Wan regarded him warily, and thrust his utensil into his grain salad with trenchant precision.

The Jedi master only chuckled warmly at his expense.

Katas and saber drills were easily enough accomplished without the use of words on the padawan's part; sparring occasioned two near-slips when Qui-Gon's saber brushed painfully close to Obi-Wan's skin, eliciting a strangled yelp the tall man chose _not_ to interpret as coherent speech, particularly since the only rational interpretation he could put on the syllables would have earned the young Jedi worse punishment.

He pointed out the aspects that needed improvement and doled out encouragement and praise as required, then told the boy to change and meet him in the outside corridor, as they had a social call to make.

A tug on his sleeve and a mildly pleading expression – _akk puppy eyes,_ a desperate resort to be sure – served to inquire whence they were headed, but Qui-Gon was not to be so easily swayed. "Patience, young one."

He could get used to this.

* * *

Senior Healer Ben To Li was more than happy to expound his views regarding the motivations and driving forces behind the outcome of the fourth Teth civil war.

"Absolutely not," he replied, setting his empty tea bowl aside. "The Ka'Darrach's decision to annex both moons was a strategic bluff; only a sophomoric tactician," – he glanced at the pink-cheeked padawan- "would waste time looking for deeper meaning. But the ploy served its purpose admirably in the end. The minor kingdoms ceded defeat and joned the 'Araach Allinace, securing the northern hemisphere against orbital attack and consolidating the ruling dynasty's control of shipping routes on and off-planet."

"Fascinating," Qui-Gon murmured. "I was under the impression it was not the vizier himself but his council that had provoked the original dispute regarding lunar independency."

"No, no,no,no," Ben To huffed. "Misinformation. Some of the _popular histories_ gloss over the point, but a scholarly examination of the original documents reveals otherwise. It was certainly the Ka himself who initiated the imperial movement."

By which time Obi-Wan was practically sitting on his hands to keep himself under control. Qui-Gon spared his distraught apprentice a single amused glance and poured more tea for the healer. "It is always a pleasure to hear your expert opinion, Ben To."

They drank in silence, the youngest of the party scowling ferociously. At least seventeen of his dearly-held hypotheses regarding the Teth conflicts had been dissected and dismissed out of hand, without a word of protest on his part. Still, he had courageously managed to keep his vow of silence, settling by default for projecting a vibrant image across his nascent Force bond with Qui-Gon: the Ka'Darrach's elite vanguard ruthlessly burning down the Halls of Healing.

The tall Jedi master coughed a little, clearing his throat as he swallowed his last mouthful the wrong way.

"Speaking of delusional annexation plans," Ben To continued, "How did that business on Palatar go? Rumor has it the sub-surface insurgency refused to stand down?"

"It was a doomed situation," Qui-Gon sighed "But we did extract the Republic ambassadors and thwart the incoming shipment of bioweapons, so the mission was not a total loss."

The healer snorted. "Forgive my saying so, but you would have done better to make appeal to the Bekkiar religious code. The Oblates of Submission would have rallied to your cause had you presented the Republic's request in a less political guise. The last prophet explicitly foretold apocalyptic results of further entanglement with mega-economical powers. Now, had you-"

"The historical situation has shifted somewhat," the tall man replied, tightly. "Present concrete circumstance dictated a rather different approach."

"Nonsense," his interlocutor snorted. "And I do hope when you submit your recommendation for further Senatorial action, that you emphasize the subsidiarity of the guilds and the standing militia on the surface archipelagos. Essential and often overlooked aspects of the overall dynamic."

Qui-Gon set his cup down. "Thank you, _Healer_ Li. Your insight is priceless."

Ben To's bushy brows shot straight up. "And you are very quiet today, Padawan Kenobi. Nexu got your tongue? Dear me, I shall leave some blue milk lying about the place."

Obi-Wan bowed his head, teeth gritted.

"If you will excuse us?"

"By all means – I have duties to attend, unlike the diplomats around here. Duty does not wait for all of us while we indulge in idle speculation."

* * *

Qui-Gon Jinn stalked down the corridor, apprentice scurrying at his heels.

Of all the star forsaken effrontery – a _healer_ telling him how to manage a delicate intergalactic diplomatic affair. Historical knowledge – gleaned from holobooks or even _original documents- _ was one thing, but field experience and guidance provided by the Living Force trumped such lesser sources of insight every time. Ben To Li might be a master in his field, but he could certainly use a reminder just how far the bounds of his expertise extended. "Less political guise" indeed – it was clear the man had never set foot on Palatar, much less spoken with the current totalitarian leadership.

He was not accustomed to having his actions summarily critiqued, outside the Council chamber. And even the Jedi Council waws seldom so poorly informed. He snorted gently, vainly striving to release his pique into the Force. They halted at the nearest lift.

He glanced down at his padawan, who was studying his face intently, more than a little amusement dancing in his eyes.

The tall man exhaled, a draigon's puff of irritation. "Not everything Master Li says should be taken to heart, Padawan," he warned. Without _hearing_ the boy's expressed reactions and opinions, it was impossible to gauge how misleading Ben To's statements might have been.

A demure nod.

"Indeed, Some of what he says ought perhaps to be explicitly ignored." The lift door slid open to admit them into its burnished interior.

Another humble bow.

Qui-Gon tapped fingers against his 'saber's hilt, unaccountably aggravated. It was quite possible, he reflected, that an individual so recklessly opinionated as Ben To Li ought not, in the end, be afforded the deferential treatment most elders deserved. He could do with a little stalwart opposition to his habit of blithe pontification. He glanced down again, noting that the smirk he could feel building in the Force now played about the corners of his padawan's mouth.

Fine. "You may speak," he grudgingly retracted his former injunction.

Obi-Wan's brows rose delicately. "Master Li _is_ delusional," he said. He tucked hands into opposite sleeves, a miniature portrait of Jedi serenity. "It isn't disrespect, Master. It's the truth."

A disgruntled sigh that transformed to a dry chuckle on the tail end. Qui-Gon's mood lightened considerably.

He reached out to tweak the end of his apprentice's braid. "Brat."

They would discuss it _at length _over dinner that evening.


	23. Chapter 23

**Growing Pains**

* * *

_Author's Note: per Deb's request, some missing scenes set in the two year hiatus between Lineage I, chapters 1 and 2. Obi-Wan is a mere ten years old here; Master Troon refused to disclose his own age - but if you look closely, you can see he has some grey hair coming in._

**Insomnia**

"Master?"

Troon Palo, veteran chaperone to the boisterous Dragon Clan, padded his way between the neat rows of sleeping mats to the one on the far right, closest to the interior door. He knelt down, ebony fur rippling in the faint blue luminance of the holo-projected star-map spiraling soporifically beneath the domed ceiling. "Not sleeping _again?"_ he rumbled, quietly.

"Thinking."

Troon stroked the wakeful little human's head, gently. "Did you drink your peruma tea?"

A telling silence.

The clanmaster released a breath of frustration "I told you to drink it, Obi-Wan."

A guilty squirm beneath his broad paw. "You said _be sure to empty that cup, _ actually, Master. So I did."

Troon's fur rippled in aggravation as he scooped the malfeasant up and carried him into the adjacent room, the now empty common area that served as dining hall, gymnasium and play area. They sat on a low, inset bench where their conversation would not disturb the slumbering younglings next door. "I'm not even going to make an answer to that nonsense." He tightened his grip on his present captive – a light burden for someone so huge - and was surprised to meet not the expected resistance against perceived coddling, but rather a willing embrace. The Force thrummed with a melancholic note seldom felt within the clan's protective enclave.

"What's got your knickers in a twist?" the hirsute Jedi inquired. "Another dream?"

"No dreams."

"Well, good. Not some star-forsaken book from the Archives again?"

The boy shook his head, burying his face deeper in Troon's shoulder. "How many is _several?"_ Obi-Wan asked.

"Several?" the clanmaster repeated, stymied. "Well, that depends on context. If I said you could play scramball for several minutes, it might mean what?"

"Ten or fifteen. Maybe more."

"Really. But if I said all those who aren't asleep by midnight-chime will be doing several extra chores come morning, then what would it mean?"

"Two?" the youngling offered, hopefully.

"At least three. Probably four. Five."

"You _didn't _ say that, Master, so it doesn't count," Obi-Wan reminded him, sheer pragmatic self-preservation momentarily taking precedence over his more abstract worry.

"My point is that it could mean several different things, depending on context. No pun intended." The appeal to humor had its intended effect; the gangly bundle of limbs in his arms relaxed into a hiccuping laugh, tense muscles slackening as the boy curled himself into Troon's luxuriant body-fur. "Oh."

Still. Odd question, even coming from this one. The clanmaster initiated a gentle swaying motion, one guaranteed to soothe any mammalian youngster into sleepy contentment, and shaped the Force's eddying currents to the rhythm of his body. "Why do you ask?"

The boy had two handfuls of Troon's fur now – his closely guarded dignity forgotten by the wayside - and was halfway gone already. It took him a while to surface far enough to manage an answer. "Well… how many would several mean if somebody said he was going to be gone several weeks but it's been a long long time?"

Instinct guided Troon's answer. "Oh, longer than it's been yet. I wouldn't worry about it."

Obi-Wan nodded at that, too enmeshed in the silent lullaby to offer analytical objection. Anxiety leached out of his small body into the Force and was smoothed away into infinity. Troon rocked him a few more minutes, then lumbered to his feet, carried the insensate youngling back to his assigned sleep mat, and tucked him in.

When he was satisfied that each and every member of the clan was, at last, good and truly asleep, he turned to his own small nook, where meditation and a brief rest awaited him. He rubbed one enormous hand across the back of his head, ducking beneath the low door lintel, and tried to give context to the boy's question, an elusive guess seeming to flit about the periphery of his recollection.

But he just couldn't pin it down.

* * *

The question was driven from his mind entirely by the brouhaha that erupted the next morning at breakfast. Even among Jedi younglings, the geography of differing personalities often included some very predictable fault lines.

"Hey, Oafy, did you sleep last night or did you wake up in a puddle of tears again?"

This ruthless lambasting was delivered by Bruck Chun, a platinum-headed and thoroughly undomesticated child with a special vibro-axe to grind. Across the long narrow table, with its double row of sedate diners, Garen Muln stiffened into defensive indignation. The intended target of the insult, however, rose to the occasion with a parry and counterstrike.

"At least I didn't wake up in a puddle of something _else," _Obi-Wan drawled.

The reminder of past humiliation in the crèche was sufficient to neatly turn the tables. Chun, formerly the aggressor, flushed vibrant crimson beneath his white hair, wounded dignity bleeding in the Force. He seized his cup of blue milk and savagely threw its contents at the speaker.

Obi-Wan raised his hands in a completely reflexive Force-shield and deflected the liquid missile in every direction, effectively drenching one end of the table and all his immediate companions. Cries of protest rang off the rafters.

"All right!" Troon roared. "That's enough, you lot!" He seized the nearest culprit – Kenobi – by the scruff, or rather by a handful of loose tunics, and hauled him into a corner. The boy knelt miserably, facing the joined walls.

"Self. Control." Troon accented the stern admonition with two gentle taps to the young human's head, and left him.

"He started it," Chun objected, standing up amid the dripping mess. "I didn't do anything." Garen Muln's shouted refutation stirred the remainder of the Dragons into heated debate.

The ruckus came to a sudden halt when Troon's fur bristled, a deep growl emanating from his throat. "If you did nothing, then why is _your_ cup empty?" the huge clan-master demanded of the villain. When Chun had no smart answer to offer in reply, he too was summarily hustled to a corner and told to meditate on the tragic shortcomings in his character. The others filed back into the sleeping room to change their milk-drenched tunics.

Troon Palo raked two enormous paws through his head-fur and determined that _something_ would have to be done about the situation, before he went entirely grey.

* * *

Jedi as a rule preferred diplomacy and the negotiation of mutually agreeable concessions to more unilateral solutions, but Troon Palo had the luxury of eschewing all such ambassadorial practices when he found it needful. As a result, his swift and decisive transfer of Bruck Chun to Bear Clan, where it was to be hoped the little reprobate might stand a chance of starting with a clean slate and forming some meaningful friendships, was accepted by the Temple's higher authorities as a routine disciplinary decision falling under the authority of those charged with the supervision of the youngest generation.

Nobody complained, even Bruck. And the removal of this particular barb seemed, at least for a while, to smooth over the wrinkles in Dragon Clan's everyday routine.

Until Obi-Wan started dreaming again, that is. A Force sensitive child in the throes of nightmare is a power to be reckoned with; his unconscious projection of night terrors is easily sufficient to drive his dozen companions into wailing and shuddering disarray, a riot of disturbed images and feelings flooding like a volcanic eruption across mental shields only rudimentarily trained to control such assaults. Troon had his hands full soothing his clan for more than a week straight before he finally moved the source of the perturbation into his own small sleep chamber.

And even then, the improvement was minimal. He threw up his gigantic hands and put a call into the healers.

"But… why can't I go down to 'saber practice with the others?" Obi-Wan plaintively inquired when Troon gently broke the news to him.

"This isn't a punishment," the gigantic clan-master assured his disappointed young charge. "It's for your own good. I want you to tell Master Ng-Yue about the things you see in your dreams."

The boy's round face stilled, mouth thinning into an intractable line.

Troon stroked both furry hands up and down the youngling's arms. "You'll be fine." His companion favored him with a burning look, and an impressive scowl for someone so rosy-cheeked. "And you'll have to do better than that to intimidate _me._ Now." He stood, summoning a thin holo-volume from across the now empty dormitory. "Why don't you read to me while we wait? Keep your mind off brooding."

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan grumbled, slim fingers deftly pulling up the text display at his virtual bookmark. Troon settled in cross-legged and politely feigned interest in the obscure cultural traditions of Vetruvia.

"And furthermore," the budding scholar intoned in a carefully enunciated and sober tone, "Whensoever any resolution impacting the general welfare of the state is reached, the general assembly is obliged by tradition to pass the self-same decision in parliament after the ritual imbibi-im- _imbibing_ of aged fermis. The Vetruvian sages record that any act of will founded in reason and common consensus will not lose the potency.. what's potency, Master?"

"Power."

"The potency to produce effi-sious-casius… results even when made in a condition of imbibreiation. Ineb..erration."

Troon grinned, sharp teeth just poking over purple gums and lips. "You really like this stuff, eh?"

Obi-Wan looked up from the difficult text, frowning indignantly. "It's _interesting,_ Master." A thought struck him. "Do you think the Council drinks fermis when they make an important decision?"

The clan-master shook his shaggy head. "Ah, …_No_."

"Oh." A twist of the mouth and a wistful look. "I'd _really_ like to try some fermis."

"I think you'd do better to stick with peruma tea, young one."

This staid recommendation was met with a dismissive snort. "Peruma tea makes you _impotent,"_ Obi-Wan declared.

Of course Master Ng-Yue chose to enter in the middle of Troon's roaring bout of laughter. The elegant Quermian's head wavered curiously atop her sinuous neck, waiting for her colleague to regain his composure.

_Master Palo,_ she bowed, returning his silent greeting. _And you must be Initiate Kenobi._

The latter person nodded, eyes wide. The Quermian's words seemed to chime in the Force itself, projected without sound directly into his mind. The healer floated downward to the small meditation cushion by the boy's side, her movements hypnotically graceful. She folded both pairs of hands over her middle, blinking slowly. _I'm told you have rather intense dreams. Will you tell me about them?_

"Must I?"

_If you would prefer to show me, we will help you sleep._

"No. I – I don't really much like them. I mean, I don't want more. And I don't want to tell about them. They're horrid. Falling off narrow paths and getting lost in labyrinths and following trails that fade into bogs and go nowhere. Can't I just go down to 'saber practice with everyone else? Please?"

The Quermian mind healer exchanged a glance with Troon.

"I'll make some _peruma_ tea," the clan-master grunted, heaving himself onto his feet.

A pair of pale, long-fingered hands closed gently about the boy's fidgeting ones. _I think it would be best if you showed me._

* * *

In the end , Master Ng-Yue's diagnosis did not prove particularly helpful. The boy was strong in the Unifying Force; the recurring nightmares were but emotive and imaginative lenses through which his still nascent powers of premonition played themselves out; there was only injurious effect to be wrought by suppressing a natural propensity of such strength; Troon must simply do his best to soothe away the worst of the tremors and make sure the youngling _slept_ enough, by whatever means he deemed fit – and of course, make sure to instruct his student in _shielding_ techniques as much and as expeditiously as possible.

And so, they all learned to live with it, and if there were a particular root or cause exacerbating young Obi-Wan's anxiety, it remained a mystery – until the evening when Troon again discovered him lying rigid on his sleep mat, whiling away the night hours in thought rather than sleep.

"Tsk, tsk,tsk," he clucked – the stentorian chucking of some gargantuan monster hen – "At it again, are we?"

He received an apologetic grimace in reply. "I can't sleep."

The Clan-master stretched out supine beside his small charge. "Out with it," he ordered.

"Has it been _several_ weeks now? I think it has. And more."

There it was again – that query regarding _several_ weeks….Troon's mind wandered back over the last months, seeking some landmark event amid the tempestuous sea of growing pains and minor upheavals that filled the horizons of his protected world. "Several weeks since what?"

"Since Master Jinn came. He said he would be gone several weeks. But it's been much, much longer than several now."

The clan-master's breath escaped him in a throaty whoosh of vexation. Jinn- that wretched old barve! Of course…. How dare the arrogant son of a vetch waltz in here, play with the affections of Troon's precious hatchlings, and then leave, oblivious to the consequences.

"I'll throttle him," he promised the Force, should it ever see fit to send the tall maverick this way again.

"Do you think he came back to the Temple but he forgot what he said?"

What he said… "What did he say to you?" Throttle him with his own tabards. It would serve him right.

"He said we would talk some more when he got back."

Troons' head fur stood on end. "About what?"

But Obi-Wan only shrugged, not expecting anything concrete. "I don't know. Maybe Vetruvia? I liked talking to him. We meditated together, too. I thought… I mean, I had a dream once… but it doesn't matter. It's fine if he forgot. Jedi masters are very busy. I understand." A brave lie, bravely stated.

"Jedi masters keep their word," Troon corrected him, rolling upright. Put the _pizzmah_ in a headlock and _then_ throttle him with his own tabards. "But I don't think he's back yet. Maybe the mission took an unexpected turn. He takes dangerous ones, you know."

"Oh. That's different. I was just wondering."

"Hm." Troon laid a hand on the boy's forehead, smoothing away an infantile furrow between the tightly beetled brows. "I'll tell you what he would say if he were here. He'd say, _focus on the present moment._ That's fine advice."

"He would say that?"

"Yes." Just before the stupid gundark expired from Troon's sustained chokehold. "He would, all right."

"Oh." The youngling relaxed. "I'll try to do that."

"No try, only do," the cross clan master reminded him, exerting a bit of subtle Force-influence to augment the sudden wave of sleepiness this soothing revelation engendered.

"Nnngh," was the best reply he got.

When Dragon Clan was finally asleep, down to the very last man, Troon rose and logged into his office data-terminal, requesting records of arrivals and departures for the Temple over the last sixmonth. If Jinn wasn't off-planet in truth and deed, he would be receiving an irate late night visitor in approximately ten minutes… but as it turned out, the Order's most nefarious rogue was in fact _not_ resident at all, his latest mission classified as "extended." The clan master shut down the computer display and collapsed into his creaking chair with a deep sigh.

He could have sworn, half a year ago, that Jinn intended to….

But never mind. He clambered back to his weary feet and sought out the comfort of his own bed, and the few hours' sweet repose he might glean before dawn, while the snores of his innocent charges played counterpoint to his ebbing wrath.

After all, theirs was to do, not to know. And the future was always in motion.


	24. Chapter 24

**Growing Pains**

* * *

_Author's Note: this one is for Nanuk, who was curious about birthday #17. As you can see, Qui-Gon is true to form._

**Many Happy Returns**

"The barrier is controlled from a remote panel across the guard room," Obi-Wan observed, tapping one booted foot against the cell's dura-crete wall.

Qui-Gon Jinn did not bother to open his eyes. He inhaled deeply, held it, exhaled. "You would run the risk of shorting out _all_ the cell doors in this bloc. And there are, I may remind you, some rare _characters_ stowed down the hall."

His Padawan snorted. "We could handle them."

"Without 'sabers?"

This gave the rash young Jedi a moment's pause; he shifted position, crossing the raised leg over his bent knee and propping both hands behind his head. "Perhaps."

The older man abandoned all hope of a refreshing meditation and addressed his impatient protégé directly. "_Perhaps_ is not sufficient foundation for a well-formulated escape plan."

His apprentice rolled fluidly into sitting position upon the built-in bunk. "What? With due respect, Master, _your_ plans never-"

"_With due respect_ is not sufficient foundation for whatever piece of insolence you are about to utter," the tall man warned him, holding up an admonitory finger.

"Yes, Master." A deep sigh. "…I could mind trick one of the guards."

"There are six of them, Obi-Wan. And a building on full security alert above."

The younger member of the Republic ambassadorial team stood and resumed the restless pacing that had occupied the better part of his morning already. "I still don't see how this happened. We're smarter than this."

Qui-Gon Jinn snorted softly. "Apparently not."

"Do these people really think they can get away with imprisoning Republic emissaries? Have they no grasp on galactic law?"

But the Jedi master waved a dismissive hand. "Once the new regime has procured the insurgents' cooperation and signed in the desired concessions, this will be brushed off as an unfortunate diplomatic _misunderstanding._ I expect a very handsome apology has already been written, ready to deliver to us at the end."

"And how long will that take?" the young Jedi groused. "Months."

"I didn't say we would stay here, Padawan. But the timing must be right."

Obi-Wan fumed, arms crossed over his chest. "Well, don't delay on _my _account," he drawled.

His companion rose, knees cracking in vocal protest. "Patience, young one, patience. We must wait for the right opportunity to present itself."

* * *

"Is this, by any chance, the day on which our singular aurodium opportunity for escape will present itself?" Obi-Wan inquired the next morning. "If so, I am prepared to be a receptive and willing instrument of the Force."

"Hm." It was Qui-Gon's turn to indulge in the luxury of the single hard cell-bunk. He stretched, reaching into the plenum for a sense of immediate _potentiality, _the unique configuration of current and eddy that constituted the present moment. "Perhaps, perhaps not. But it is a special occasion."

His padawan regarded him cagily, expecting some treacherous lesson or classic Jedi koan.

Qui-Gon allowed the smile to travel from his eyes to his mouth. "You've lost track of days again, Obi-Wan."

The young Jedi's expression bordered perilously on an impertinent eye-roll. "Should I have been keeping tally marks on the wall?" he asked, dryly.

"You are making the prospect of escape more appealing by the minute, my young friend. But that is a mere side-note to the main point: today is, by the standard galactic calendar, the seventeenth anniversary of your birth."

Obi-Wan raised his brows. "Well, we're certainly celebrating in high style. This is even better than the _sky-diving_ lessons."

"Ingratitude has no place in a Jedi's heart, Padawan. Besides, the celebration has yet to start."

"I am panting with anticipation," the guest of honor quipped, dead-pan.

"Good." Qui-Gon's eyes glinted wickedly. "We have the whole day ahead of us."

* * *

They dispensed with all the customary formalities first. Since running the Temple perimeter seventeen times was out of the question due to their constricting circumstances, they replaced the traditional marathon with one hundred seventy push ups and a seventeen-minute one-armed handstand. Qui-Gon's philosophical observation that seventeen solid thwacks across the backside might not be a bad idea was refuted with lengthy citations from the Precepts and duly discarded as uncivilized – but the tall man immediately found an innovative solution by suggesting a best-nine-out-of-seventeen matches wrestling contest. The latter recreation, which ran to twelve protracted tussling sessions and attracted the amused fascination of the guards presently posted on duty, left both Jedi sore and winded.

"I pinned you three times," Obi-Wan pointed out, rubbing at his bruised ribs.

Qui-Gon raised his hands pacifically. " I am not immune from the ravages of age."

A smart rapping on the doorframe brought their attention back to the quotidian affair of imprisonment. Two armed guards covered the energy field with blasters while the third passed through bearing a sparsely laden tray. "Food," he grunted. "And do I need to transfer you lot into separate detention cells?"

"You must do what you think is right, of course…" the Jedi master amiably replied.

"But we are a great deal of trouble to contain," his apprentice added. "It might mean more work for your detail."

The man grumblingly slammed the unappetizing meal down upon the bunk and made to withdraw. "No more rough-housing, then. Makes my men edgy."

"Of course. Our apologies," Qui-Gon demurred, ever the polite diplomat. "Perhaps if we had some other means of passing the time? My companion is young and in need of distraction."

The sullen guard shoved one hand into a deep pocket and brought forth a battered deck of sabaac cards, held together by a fraying elastic band. "Here. Knock yourselves out." He shrugged, and slipped back into the outer chamber, his compatriots sealing the door behind him.

Obi-Wan picked forlornly at the comestibles, lip curling in distaste. "Wait until Master Uvain hears about _this._"

"Not _every_ misadventure we suffer must be dredged up again as amusing dinner-table small talk," Qui-Gon grumbled.

His apprentice spared him a small smirk. "Of course not, Master… I've still not told her about that business on Shar'fa Minor."

Qui-Gon ignored the implied blackmail and made his own critical appraisal of the fare provided by their captors. "Hm. I think the bread and vegetables are likely harmless enough, but I would avoid the … proteins."

Obi-Wan slouched against the wall, hands clasped loosely in his lap. "I don't mean to quell the spirit of festivity, but I was wondering if that opportunity we alluded to earlier might have presented itself yet?"

The tall man released a long breath and settled on the hard floor opposite. "A few hands of sabaac, Padawan. Let us see if you are blessed with better luck than is your wont."

* * *

Obi-Wan's luck held straight through five games, at which point Qui-Gon accused him of ruthlessly bending every rule, flouting every unspoken convention of the game, and generally skirting one nanometer shy of cheating.

"I honor your teachings in all things, Master."

The older man confiscated the deck, mouth pressed into a singularly wry line. "There are some things I would have done better _not_ to teach you, brat."

"As you say, Master."

Qui-Gon fixed his smug protégé with a repressive look and rose to address the guard posted outside their cell.

"Excuse me." When the fellow obligingly opened the audio-link between the cell and the outside world, he leaned forward conspiratorially and made a lengthy proposition while his auditor's expression transformed from one of bland dubiety to one of greedy anticipation. Eventually the guard nodded, barked a few orders to his comrades, and returned to keeping strict watch over the prisoners.

"What was all that about?" the young Jedi wished to know.

Qui-Gon shuffled the sabaac cards and dealt a new hand. "I have suggested that they use the Republic credits confiscated with our weapons and gear to procure some bootlegged liquor. The market is highly regulated here on Uutamu, and therefore flooded with the highest quality illegal imports."

Obi-Wan frowned over his cards. "Master – they're liable to spend well in excess of a thousand credits; you should not have given them carte blanche –"

"Surely your life day is an occasion meriting a splurge? Besides, a thousand credits is far less than the likely ransom for two Jedi." A significant tilt of the head.

"Oh. Yes." Obi-Wan played his first _pair, _and drew an extra. "I am honored."

Qui-Gon matched the pair and held his wild card in reserve. "That is the general idea."

His apprentice weighed options, drew, and passed. "You know this will never work. It's the most clichéd holo-novel gambit ever used."

The tall man merely shrugged. "Worth should not always be judged by originality. There is something to be said for the tried and true."

"I'll be sure to include that in the mission report," the young Jedi muttered.

* * *

An hour later, however, he was more of a mind to expurgate the entire incident from his planned mission report. Qui-Gon must have been carrying a hefty sum in Republic dataries in his person at the outset of the mission, for the off-duty guards returned form their errand bearing a full case of top quality bootlegged Corellian brandy, three bottles of which were summarily opened and poured into tumblers.

The men did seem inspired to a sort of gratitude, for they lowered the energy sheild and cautiously invited the Jedi to partake of the smuggler's booty with them. Qui-Gon- infuriatingly at ease in this milieu of skullduggery - happily acquiesced and cut across his subordinate's unvoiced objections with a single warning look.

Thus, the young Jedi found himself in the peculiar position of being forced to drink his own health – and many happy returns of the day – at blaster point. The amused glint in his mentor's eye did nothing to recommend the absurdity of his position. He tossed back the generous portion of liquor in his own smudged glass with what he hoped was a cavalier petulance, and promptly choked.

Though he had to admit it had a _wonderful_ afterburn.

"Attaboy!" his joyful captors crowed, following suit. Qui-Gon placidly called for another round, winking broadly in his padawan's direction, and making no attempt at escape.

"Master, should we not-"

"Obi-Wan. These men have a duty, as we have ours. We shall not mar the concord of this moment with an act of violence. Here." He waved over the affably beaming captain and refilled his apprentice's glass.

"You Jedi are the _best_ political prisoners we've ever had," the fellow confided in them, taking a large swig. "A pleasure."

"The pleasure is ours. We are under mandate to evaluate the reorganized Uutamuni regime from the inside-out, so to speak. Our present status affords us the best possible vantage point from which to formulate a report for the Coruscant authorities."

The captain of the guard frowned muzzily over this piece of intelligence. "Oh, I see."

Qui-Gon tapped the side of his nose. "Between ourselves, of course. It would never do for the premier to find out we _desire_ to remain under arrest." The Force swelled with a subtle persuasion.

"No, no of course not," their inebriated acquaintance agreed, wavering on his feet. "Another round? Congratulations, lad. Cheers."

The revelry in the outside chamber lasted several more hours and resulted in the total incapacitation of at least half the company.

"_Now,_ Master?" It was now or never, in the young Jedi's opinion.

But the Jedi master merely looked out paternalistically upon the besotted guardsmen and pointed to the single narrow bunk. "Your turn, tonight. And rest well. I believe we may have an eventful day tomorrow."

Obi-Wan sighed and rolled himself up in his cloak, resigned to spending the remaining two hours of his life-day sleeping in a dank cell.

"By the way, " Qui-Gon murmured as he drifted toward discontent slumber, "Your gift may be a day belated… but I am confident you will find it worth the wait."

* * *

They were rudely roused before dawn and hustled out of their erstwhile accommodations onto the premier's private landing pad, where the Republic diplomatic shuttle awaited, primly flanked by a double row of blaster wielding soldiery. The Jedi's weapons were thrust into their hands, warnings not to deviate from the pre-programmed flight pattern issued, and no very fond farewells exchanged.

"Well," Obi-Wan remarked as the pressure hatch sealed itself behind them. "_That_ was nice. We've been deported."

"We have endured less courteous send-offs."

"Yes, Master… but that was rather _unexpected."_

Qui-Gon smiled enigmatically. "I told you the occasion would present itself. We had but to drop the hint."

"And a few thousand credits worth of brandy."

The tall man grimaced. "Yes, there was that, too. But you are worth the expense, Padawan mine."

Obi-Wan sincerely hoped _that_ would not make it into the mission debriefing.

"I take it you approve of your life-day present?"

The young Jedi leaned back in the co-pilot's chair, and fixed his mentor with a wearily sarcastic smile. He would take what he could get, where his master's sense of meaningful gifts was concerned. "I shall cherish it always," was his droll reply.

They shared a soft chuckle, and set about composing the official report together.


	25. Chapter 25

**Growing Pains**

* * *

_For Nanuk, who gave me a plot bunny on an insufferably hot day._

**On Edge**

Obi-Wan settled cross-legged on the shaded balcony, relishing the feel of Coruscant's sluggish breeze across his bare skin. It was a rare event when the orbital mirrors in satellite around the city planet went malfunctional enough to cause such a latitudes-wide heat wave, and a rarer event still when the Temple's extensive venting system – a massive tunnel network embedded in the edifice's gargantuan bowels- did not prove up to the task. But today was such a day, and the temperatures in the upper level residence wings had steadily crawled to an unacceptable high point. The young padawan had found his preferred retreat, however. The open balcony adjacent to Qui-Gon Jinn's quarters was a luxury not every Jedi possessed; he was more than grateful for the relief it provided now. The Temple's soaring walls blocked the afternoon sun's rays – the window was positioned to greet the dawn – and gave him a breath of fresh higher-altitude air. It was almost comfortable.

He propped the datapad on one knee and tapped the electrostylus against the other, frowning over his overdue astrophysics assignment. "Force… lowercase _forn…_ is equal to the descending body's mass times the planetary acceleration constant, expressed in units of meters per second per second squared." A sigh, a quick consultation of the g-force (lowercase _forn)_ indices for Coruscant and Hygerria, and then some swift tapping on the calculator inset. He grunted. "Hm. Splat."

He really didn't have a head for abstract numbers, not when it was this blasted _hot._ Or ever, for that matter. In his considered opinion, it wasn't necessary to give a quantitative measure of how hard something was going to hit the ground when it finally got there. It was far more important to devise methods of forestalling such precipitous descents in the first place. Still, he tentatively entered his answer, waited for the droid auto-correcter to pronounce his fate and exhaled audibly when, by a miracle of the Force (uppercase _forn) _his calculations proved to be right.

Maybe he would pass this course after all. If he could catch up with the assignment load after a ten-day absence on mission with Qui-Gon. If not, he would have to re-enroll in the same class cycle next rotation, a prospect that inspired him with the urge to throw himself over the curved balcony railing and so end his woes. He rolled onto his back and rested both bare feet against the cool plastered wall of the balcony alcove. The deck beneath his spine was pleasantly cool. He set the 'pad against his thighs and considered the next inane request for his expert input.

"Accelerative constant is derived as a linear function of velocity squared over distance. Calculate the force required to counter an inertial energy equivalent to one fifth of a megaton in sub-escape orbital velocity around Hygerria. Round to the nearest hundredth." His head hit the deck, gently, cushioned by the soft nerf-tail tied behind. "For Force's sake." And he meant capital _forn,_ too.

So absorbed was he in the urgency of the problem that he did not sense the newcomer's presence until he was just outside the balcony door. Obi-Wan turned his head and squinted into the relatively dark interior of his quarters. "Garen!"

The other padawan sidled out into the open air and gasped appreciatively. "You lucky _barve! _ Wish Master Clee had one of these. I'm melting."

"It's wretched," his friend agreed.

Garen plopped down opposite him, tugging his tunic collars looser. "Stars' end. Sorry to intrude but the door chime shorted out in the energy overload and you weren't responding."

Obi-Wan waved about magnanimously. "What's mine is yours." He spared a glance at some of Qui-Gon's hardier specimens, clustered in pots at one corner of the small enclosure. "Except the plants. Those are not mine and therefore, not yours."

Garen chuckled. "Not disputing that." He much preferred hangar bays to greenhouses, himself. Master Jinn's eccentricities were worth tolerating however, in his opinion, if it meant the privilege of a balcony. "So," he inquired of his friend, "You always do your astro-phys homework in your chones?"

Obi-Wan smirked. "Well, yes. Generally there are additional wardrobe components, but I think it's safe to say the _foundation _is always a part of the ensemble."

"Whatever." They sat and sweated and enjoyed the not-quite-cool breeze for several long minutes. "So how goes the war?" He pointed to the datapad.

His friend groaned. "It's sapping my vitality. Soon enough I'll be like Master Chopra – hunch backed and withered and forgetful of everything concrete. This stuff is for droids."

"Yeah, droids and Reeft. He aced the exam and skipped a level. Did you hear?"

Obi-Wan let the 'pad slide to the ground, and rubbed at his eyes with the back of both hands. "I am not a competitive man, Garen. I do not crave the success of others."

"Apparently not," the other padawan snorted, snatching up the device and scrolling through the assignment. "You've only finished a _third _of it since this morning?" He paused, studying the readout. "Hells moons, Obi, what did you take the _senior_ level course for? You could have got away with introductory."

Heat was a wonderful catalyst for ill-temper. Obi-Wan felt his rise to the occasion. "I do not _settle for _ or _get away with_ the lowest common denominator, Garen. I challenge myself."

His friend held the 'pad out of reach. "Yeah, you challenge yourself too much, maybe. Admit it, this is beyond your reach. I mean, you could swallow your pride and level down – it would make matters easier."

"I don't want to succeed at _easy_ tasks!" his companion scowled.

"No, you want to fail at impossible ones! How's that going to impress Master Jinn?"

"This is not about impressing anyone," Obi-Wan snarled.

Garen's own hackles rose. "Believe me, I'm not impressed, you stubborn gundark."

"Give me that." The datapad's owner made a swift grab for his property, but was thwarted by his friend's equally honed reflexes.

And the tussle was on, much as it always had been in the crèche, and even the initiate dorms when nobody was looking. The boys had been on wrestling terms for a dozen years, and had therefore refined the skill to an exquisite art form. The limited space in which to conduct the contest, and the fact that one of the grapplers was almost entirely sans attire and slick with a long afternoon's perspiration made the match a slippery, violent one, involving much thumping into walls and the railing, and a great deal of barking laughter and good-natured derogation of the other's character and habits.

It would be difficult to say who emerged the victor, for there was no expert referee present to call out the points or determine who ought to have yielded when; but the _losers_ were indisputable. In the high-spirited ruckus, Obi-Wan's datapad and one of Qui-Gon Jinn's prized _poojami _succulents were sent plummeting over the rail, to meet cataclysmic demises at the wall's base, far far far below.

Both adolescents ceased their combative play immediately, leaning over the fated parapet as one, faces blanching to sickly grey.

"I'm sorry, Obes," Garen breathed. "I'll lend you my 'pad for now, and maybe I can see about a replacement. I'll take care of it. That was my fault," Garen hurriedly assured his friend.

But Obi-Wan's attention was more firmly riveted by the distant and splattered remains of his master's prized botanical specimen. "I won't need it, Garen," he gulped. "Seeing as I'll be on my _funeral pyre_ by tomorrow morning."

They leaned a bit farther over the railing, side by side, precariously tipping over the edge as far as they dared, hoping against hope to spy some miraculous restoration of the plant's integrity, some evidence that it might be salvaged even yet.

"What's this about a funeral pyre?" a deep, mellow voice spoke directly behind them.

Garen Muln jolted upright, while Obi-Wan started so badly he nearly lost his grip and joined the unfortunate 'pad and succulent at the Temple's distant base. Only a swift grab on Qui-Gon's part saved him from sharing the fate of his victims. The Jedi master yanked his wayward apprentice backward to safety by his shorts' waistband.

Both young padawans immediately sank to their knees before the intimidating presence before them. It would be hard to say which boy looked paler: the one who was not under Qui-Gon's immediate disciplinary jurisdiction, but knew the man for the most part only by formidable reputation – or his own padawan, who knew the man's softer side well but was, after all, directly subject to his authoritative whim. The precepts of the Jedi Order allowed masters a _great deal_ of independent sovereignty in their apprentices' education and upbringing.

He let them stew in it for several long moments. Which gave him time to notice the lacuna in his plant collection by the corner. "Where is the flowering _poojammi?'_ he inquired, softly.

Garen Muln appeared unable to speak. Obi-Wan raised anguished eyes to his face. "It fell over the edge, Master."

"Did it jump or was it pushed?" Qui-Gon inquired, dryly.

"It… we were rough-housing. It was knocked over. And my datapad, too," the doomed padawan confessed.

The tall man turned his baleful gaze upon Garen. "Padawan Muln?"

"I started it," Garen offered. "Master. I am truly sorry."

"Hmm." The criminals remained kneeling submissively before him, white as the Temple's lofty walls. Qui-Gon decided to make the lesson stick. "The data pad is merely a thing," he observed, calmly. "That was a waste of resources, but it can be easily replaced. I am sure you will be able to find some way to make recompense for the unnecessary expense you have caused."

The boys nodded. They could work – there were chores or tasks that would fit the bill. Neither was a shirker.

"I am more disappointed about the plant," the Jedi master continued. "All life is sacred."

"Yes, Master," they intoned.

"However, anger and attachment to individual beings are also not becoming for a Jedi. We will clean up the mess down below, and move forward. The Force will provide a replacement."

There was a significant silence after this. Obi-Wan finally dared to speak. "Is that.. is that all, Master?"

"Do I need deliver a lecture on mindfuless and proper comportment?" The tall man hooked thumbs through his belt. "It is far too hot to waste breath on a subject in which you are already well-versed."

The boys made him a full formal kowtow and then stood, hardly believing in their good fortune.

"Thank you, Master," Obi-Wan breathed, a surge of gratitude swelling in the Force.

Qui-Gon cocked an eyebrow. "Why don't you nip down to the foundation level and clean up the mess?" he suggested, levelly. "And also stop by the quartermaster. I will comm in a request for an additional 'pad in my own name."

Thankfulness shone from his young student's face.

"I'll help," Garen Muln promised.

"Thanks, Gar – just let me throw on some clothing and-"

"Wait a moment," Qui-Gon interrupted. "Stay there."

His young apprentice turned in place, a hint of dread already unfurling in his eyes. Before his astonished gaze, Qui-Gon deliberately set about collecting his discarded clothing and boots from about their quarters, even nipping into the padawan's small bedchamber to collect his spares. The large armful of brown and cream cloth was sent tumbling unceremoniously over the balcony railing, in the wake of the 'pad and deceased flora.

"It is hot," the tall man said. "I am sure you will be quite comfortable as you are."

Obi-Wan's face fell. It was a long walk to the ground levels, and he would have to traverse many crowded halls and concourses at this hour of day. "Master…" he hedged.

Qui-Gon's brows rose further. "You may rappel over the balcony if you prefer," he suggested.

His apprentice's face flushed at that idea. "No, Master," he responded, bowing his head. He glanced at Garen Muln, standing appalled beside him.

"I didn't bring my cloak," he mumbled apologetically. "It's too blasted hot…"

"I believe you have other duties to attend to now, Padawan Muln," Qui-Gon sternly interposed.

"Yes, Master Jinn," the victim of this statement muttered, beating a hasty retreat.

"Um… Master?"

"Off you go, Obi-Wan. A trifling matter such as this does not merit our concern or undue emotional response. It is in the past; we shall live in the present moment. Now tidy up the mess you have created and let us move on, saying no more about it."

Stymied, the boy bowed again. "…Yes, Master."

Qui-Gon waved him out the door with one hand. Just as his apprentice got to the threshold, he spoke again. "You look a bit flushed, Padawan. It must be the heat."

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan choked out, disappearing into the corridor in a mortified flash. The hydaulic pressure pistons hissed as the door slid shut behind him.

Leaving the Jedi master to chuckle long and heartily, and to step onto the cool balcony where he might console his remaining plants with a touch of the Living Force, and enjoy a breath of fresh air.


	26. Chapter 26

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Leap of Faith**

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. But it surely did not seem so now. Which, Obi-Wan Kenobi supposed, was proof of the adage he had just last week discovered in his favorite tome of ancient philosophy.

"Master Seva says that hindsight lends clarity while foresight often only obscures," he observed loftily.

"You could have used a bit more foresight, all the same," Qui-Gon Jinn retorted, frowning over his half-finished handiwork.

"But you always say-"

"Do not quote me at myself, young one." A slight pause. "And you can lay off the sagely platitudes while you're at it."

"….Yes, Master – _ow!"_

"Hold _still_, Padawan."

The older Jedi issued the command in an affectionately grumbling undertone, one broad hand firmly gripped about his apprentice's much smaller one, the other wielding a delicate pair of tweezers.

"Can't you _help _matters along with the Force?" his young protégé demanded.

One eyebrow quirked upward repressively.

"I'm sorry, Master."

"Just hold still. Or we will be repeating the _meditation statue_ exercises ad infinitum."

Obi-Wan released a long breath and looked away, his focus vaguely inward, detached from the body. It was harder to suppress a _tiny_ involuntary reaction such as a nervous tic or a reflexive flinch than to slow one's respiration or alter one's overall body temperature. That was the tricky part of Force manipulation – the more subtle the task, the more control it required. He made it through the next two splinters without a twitch – but when Qui-Gon yanked a particularly nasty sliver out of the soft tissue between thumb and forefinger, he nearly yelped.

And definitely winced.

"Obi-Wan."

"I'm…" – he almost said _trying,_ which would have been a fatal error, so he settled for- "…working on it."

The tall man rolled back on his heels. "As I am working on _this._" His blue eyes widened slightly, conveying regret. "Perhaps we ought to seek out a medical droid after all."

"No. I can hold still." Obi-Wan obligingly stretched out his palm flat, despite the stabbing ache this caused. Bright red streaks marked the places where thin poisonous spines had penetrated beneath the skin; rougher patches, oozing blood, the spots where one had been removed. "Just do it."

"Very well." Qui-Gon did not express any doubt, even if he privately harbored it. They set to work again, one bent over the criss-crossing hash of injuries, the other fixing his gaze on the architectural intricacies of the ceiling, mind wandering deep into the Force, so that burning physical pain and the animal instinct to _bolt, flee, escape_ became things other and outward, belonging to some abstract and inconsequential plane of being.

"Good," Qui-Gon's voice said from a great distance. His fingers and the cold vertices of the tool moved toward the very center of his student's hand, where sensitive uncalloused skin was pierced with an intricate network of needles. "Easy now." His precautionary grip tightened, forbidding movement. The metal tips of the tweezers probed experimentally at the throbbing wound.

His padawan's youthful features did not maintain an impeccable Jedi stoicism, but the hand did at least not jerk away from the tall man's ministrations.

"Is that all?"

Qui-Gon snapped the steri-seal on a bacta capsule and gently smeared the miraculous ointment into his student's palm and fingers. "For that side. Left hand next." He wrapped thin gauze around the hand and reached for the opposite one.

It was an absolute mess. "…._Obi-Wan."_

The young Jedi squirmed a bit, mouth twisting ruefully. "The Force told me to _jump,"_ he protested. "And there was nothing to grab but those vines."

"Which happened to be covered in miniscule, toxin-coated spines," Qui-Gon remarked, levelly. "You never do anything by halves, Padwan." He attacked the new set of splinters with unrelenting precision.

"And there was no exit route besides that window, Master. You said preserving the codex in the event of a _complication _ was my first priority –"

"And it was." The Jedi master deftly extracted a nasty sliver and tossed it aside, frowning slightly as he strategically planned his next target. "And you did well; the Council of Elders specifically thanked me for my acolyte's bravery and initiative."

The praise eased the extraction of the next three spines. Obi-Wan impassively, mouth pressed into a thin line of endurance.

Qui-Gon worked silently, large frame bent studiously over his task, his large hands nonetheless nimbly tweaking and tugging the tiny barbs free of swollen skin. He dabbed at the oozing blood with an antiseptic.

"Mmph."

"I know." He prodded at the buried end of a particularly long and deeply embedded sliver. "Still. I wonder – did the Force tell you to grab the vines? Surely you sensed the danger."

Obi-Wan's shoulders fell forward. "I did, Master." He scowled. "But… there wasn't much choice. I wasn't sure I could direct my fall, with the artifacts on my back. They were heavy and awkward, and – well – you said not to be overconfident…"

"True." The older man exhaled slowly, working cautiously now. "Easy… just a little more. I do wonder if it is possible you overlooked another possibility in your haste."

His apprentice snorted a little. "My haste to hit the ground?"

Qui-Gon glanced up, allowing a hint of humor to show in his own eyes. "Your haste to leave a burning and collapsing building. Perfectly natural – but even under duress, we must be attuned to the _subtleties _of each situation."

"Yes, Master," the padawan miserably intoned.

The last splinter was withdrawn, with a shared hiss of displeasure on either side of the operation. Qui-Gon applied bacta, mouth turned down apologetically at the corners. "However, I think there is very little need for a lecture on the topic; it would seem fate has dealt out its own harsh reminder."

Obi-Wan dropped his gaze, regarding his bandaged hands with a singularly wry disapprobation. "This is good," he muttered, morosely sarcastic.

At which moment the serving droid chimed at the ambassadorial suite's door.

"Good evening sir Jedi. My masters send their compliments and ask whether you would join them for libations after evening meal? There is a small reception planned in the foyer."

Qui-Gon nodded. "We shall attend. Convey our thanks." He accepted the hover-tray and slid the panel closed upon the automated emissary.

"Food?" Obi-Wan's spirits perked up noticeably.

Until his efforts to handle the serving utensils and dishes proved little better than awkward fumblings. He dropped his temporarily crippled hands to his lap and sat fuming as Qui-Gon served up the meal.

"I'm sorry, Master, I know frivolous uses of the Force are forbidden, but in this instance-"

"In this instance," the Jedi master smirked, "You may choose between going hungry or suffering the humiliation of being fed like a baby thranctill."

"Regurgitation will not be necessary," Obi-Wan growled, one brow arching upward.

His companion chuckled heartily, and settled in his seat opposite. He waved a magnanimous hand. "I rescind my previous injunction. You may frivol at will."

The subsequent stretch of time proved several things. First, that their hosts –like politicians across the galaxy – kept a fine table, despite the depressed economy and food shortages afflicting their small planetary system. Second, that Obi-Wan's Force control was good, but not quite good enough to pull off the proposed feat. Third, that _perukkh _ sauce left indelible and eye-catching stains upon simple cream linen tabards. Fourth, that it was very difficult indeed to extract oneself from Jedi uniform without the use of hands. Fifth, that the facilities boasted no laundry unit. Sixth, that such complications were actually sufficient to endanger the Republic ambassadors' punctuality.

They arrived downstairs late, but Qui-Gons' sheer impressive aura rendered it _fashionably _late. The entire Council of Elders reiterated their previous encomiums upon the Jedi, especially the very young hero, and lamented the explosion that had demolished a significant portion of their historic assembly hall.

"But our cultural heritage – our greatest treasure- has been preserved," the Spokesman enthused. "And so, we shall rebuild, as we have before."

The Jedi master bowed. "Your leadership will carry your traditions into the future."

"And you, young man," the Speaker blustered on, "That was a spectacular leap. The crowds outside were amazed, and I _must say, _I would never even dare to touch one of those horrid vines." He shook his head admiringly. "They are covered in poison spines, you know. Ah, the magical things you Jedi can do. You inspire us all, I am sure."

Obi-Wan glanced up at Qui-Gon, then made a careful bow, keeping his hands securely tucked away out of view, inside his voluminous cloak sleeves. The Speaker ambled away, a glass of liqueur in one hand.

"Master?"

The tall man steered him by one shoulder toward the open balcony doors adjacent. The night breeze outside was cool, a relief from the stuffy environs within. They leaned upon the smooth parapet railing.

"Let him draw his own conclusions. More important to me is this: what have you learned?"

Obi-Wan peered at the creepers clinging to the stone wall. "That those blasted things grow _everywhere _here."

"Perhaps they were planted as a means of defense. The species has great longevity, and would serve as a primitive deterrent to any would-be thief or intruder hoping to scale the wall."

The young Jedi shrugged, shifting his arms beneath his robe. He released another long breath. "Well, I'm suitably deterred."

Qui-Gon leaned over the edge and fingered one of the thick green ropes. "Ah," he murmured. "The spines are not apparent immediately. They only rise perpendicular to the stalk when you apply pressure… or drag downward like this." He withdrew his hand quickly, rubbing at two fingers. "A natural defense. To the touch, however they are quite soft. Try it."

His apprentice hesitated fractionally, then humored him. "Oh," he said. "That's odd."

"I see now," Qui-Gon remarked.

"I don't understand."

"I see what you should have done," the tall man clarified. "Consider the moment of action again. What might you have done differently?"

Obi-Wan's brows quirked upward, then beetled together as he mulled over the problem. "I had to jump," he insisted. "I could feel the Force- as though it was urging me to jump, to escape – the explosion happened only a moment after that –"

"You were quite right to obey your instincts. But listen to what you said. You felt that you should _jump."_

"Yes, Master," his apprentice helplessly concurred. "But it is a _long way down_ form the top level – the plaza is at least a hundred meters below, and we haven't practiced Force-cushioning a fall from that height, and – "

"Obi-Wan."

The tirade ceased.

"Stop thinking. Use your instincts. You followed the guidance of the Force, up to a point. It was after you jumped that you made your fatal error."

The young Jedi grimaced and thrust his gauze-wrapped hands out from beneath wide sleeve hems. "I grabbed the vines to slow my descent," he objected. "There was nothing else to do but _fall, _Master!"

Qui-Gon folded his own arms and leaned back against the wall, expectant. "You didn't _have_ to slow your descent."

His protégé eyed him warily. "I should have… simply fallen?" he asked, bemused.

A small chuckle. "I'll show you." The Jedi master sprang lightly onto the rail, and summoned Obi-Wan up beside him. They balanced, sure-footed as mountain yarrix. "This balcony is only a few stories above ground level. But the demonstration should suffice to illustrate the principle."

"The principle of falling on our faces."

"The principle, _young one,_ of heeding the Force and flowing with a situation, rather than second-guessing it. There is such a thing as an excess of caution."

Obi-Wan favored him with a look of purest skepticism.

"When I say three, we both leap off the edge," the tall man commanded, tone brooking no opposition. "One, two, _three."_

They leapt in unison; Qui-Gon's emerald blade sprang out of its hilt with a startling snap and hiss; a wide swath of creepers were neatly sliced from their moorings and sent tumbling downward alongside the Jedi; a neat Force push propelled the tangled mess of stem and leaf toward the waiting pavement just ahead of the two plummeting figures; the greenery hit first, providing a neat mattress of limply coiled vegetation upon which the two of them made a safe- if somewhat squelching- landing.

Only a handful of stray spines ended up stuck in the protective folds of their cloaks.

"You see," Qui-Gon said, dusting himself off as he rolled free of the mess, "A solution always presents itself."

Obi-Wan scrambled to his feet and stared wide-eyed at the heap of fallen vines. His mouth twisted, in disappointment or disgust. "I never thought of that."

"You had very little time in which to ponder a strategy," the older man consoled him. "But I think in this case anxiety about falling might have retarded the progress of intuition. Next time the Force tells you to jump-"

"Just jump." Obi-Wan nodded somberly. "I understand." He glanced upward at the illuminated balcony above. "Of course, that does not make for a very diplomatic exit."

They could, of course, simply leap back up; the height of the windows above was not outside the padawan's current range of skill. "I would rather walk in the gardens anyhow," Qui-Gon decided. "I think our brief appearance at the reception fulfills the demands of duty."

"You mean, you realized it after the fact," Obi-Wan interpreted. "Master Seva says –"

"Yes, Padawan. Hindsight lends clarity. Foresight often obscures. _But," _– he tugged at the short learner's braid behind his apprentice's ear- "it is best to keep your focus in the present moment."

They walked on, boots crunching a muted cadence upon gravel. "…And your hands off spiny native life forms."

Obi-Wan shoved his hands into his sleeves and huffed out a vexed reply. "_Yes_, Master."


	27. Chapter 27

**Growing Pains**

* * *

** Out and About**

**Part 1**

Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn pocketed his commlink and took a deep centering breath, the Force about him smoothing into unnatural calm. "Another delay," he announced, without a flicker of emotion in his voice.

His young apprentice was not so adept at smothering his own frustration. "_Another?"_ he repeated, eddies and ripples of nervous energy practically sparking off him. He scowled, burning an invisible hole in the tiled floor of the Keru Mutaar hospitality tower. "They're doing it on purpose. I can feel it."

The tall man raised a brow. "I sense no malicious intent. This delay is attributable to an ion storm disrupting the major hyperlanes in the Phygus sub-sector. The transports have been suspended until the disturbance abates. They will be here with all speed when supralight travel is again possible."

Obi-Wan bounced on his heels, a spring compressed far too tightly for far too long.

"You are a restless spirit, Padawan."

The fidgeting ceased. Slim shoulders shrugged up and down beneath the heavy folds of an umber robe's hood. "I'm sorry, Master. I will be patient."

"Hm." The tall master set off down the hallway again, his student tagging along at his side. They had been pacing agitatedly for nearly a half hour before the notification had come through the beleaguered planet's faltering comm system; another half hour's pacing would do them little or no good. The summit would not begin until all the delegates were present; the various emissaries would not arrive until the distant ion storm subsided; and that would happen in the Force's good time.

In the meantime, his adolescent companion was going to drive him to distraction. The boy had endured the first three days of procrastination and inefficiency with impressive self-control. But there were limits to a fourteen year old male's endurance, and Qui-Gon remembered them well. He reached out a hand to arrest Obi-Wan's stalking progress in mid-stride.

"I think you might benefit from a bit of recreation," he announced. "Perhaps exploring the city this afternoon?"

The young Jedi's face lit up, a pair of grooved dimples appearing in his still-round cheeks. "Can we see the agora?"

"You may stay within bounds of the Inner City precinct. And keep your commlink on at all times," Qui-Gon instructed.

Some of the ebullience bled from Obi-Wan's features. "You aren't accompanying me, Master?"

For a fleeting moment, Qui-Gon wrongly interpreted this as anxiety stemming from timidity – but the half-formed though was dismissed before it truly had crossed his mind. Caution, of a certain variety, was deeply ingrained in his apprentice's character: the kind of caution that swiftly calculated how to land on one's feet, not the sort that precluded falling in the first place. The quickly masked hurt he glimpsed in the boy's eyes told another story.

He had simply been hoping for Qui-Gon's company.

"I intend to spend this afternoon in quiet meditation," the older man confessed, secretly touched. "You are more than welcome to join me."

The invitation placated any feelings of rejection and sealed the bargain in the same breath. Obi-Wan shifted on the spot, yearning for a change of venue. "Thank you, Master. I.. I'll explore the city, with your permission."

"Good." After all, they could both do with a bit of personal space, after three and a half days' imposed idleness at close quarters – not including the lengthy interstellar trip here. It was only healthy. "Here- this should more than suffice for your needs." He dig a single Republic datarie from a belt pouch and handed it over. When Obi-Wan's brows rose half-humorously, he quickly explained. "The economy is still rebounding from an acute depression; I think you will find the rate of exchange very much in your favor."

"Yes, Master."

A bow and the ghost of an insouciant smile, and Obi-Wan had trotted down the corridor, slightly oversized cloak skirling merrily at his boot heels.

Qui-Gon chuckled quietly at the sight, and at his own diplomatic prowess, and retreated back to their assigned ambassadorial guest quarters to enjoy some cherished quiet time.

* * *

Despite the Order's ascetical stance on personal possessions – or perhaps because of it – mercantile centers and the act of shopping held a perennial fascination for Jedi younglings. The chance to observe such frenetic and utterly exotic activity up close was a rare treat; Obi-Wan sauntered happily through the crowded pedestrian byways, gazing into shop windows and peering eagerly at the mobile display stands erected along the meridian. Shoppers hustled and bustled, laden with packages and yet seemingly in a perpetual hurry to procure more, insatiable and diligent as hive insects. Jabbering voices, loud synth-music, and subtle clouds of euphoria inducing pheromones billowed in the air.

He had exchanged his datarie for exactly 47.5 _tilma- _sufficient local currency to buy a hefty lunch and, hopefully, some curious souvenir to show Bant when he returned to Temple. The young Mon Cal was a dear friend and hung upon every word of tales about travel to distant systems. Obi-Wan smiled at the thought of surprising her with some bizarre object or another, something representative of this system's idiosyncrasies. He passed a store devoted to knives and spent a good half hour ogling its wares, eyeing the delicate craftsmanship and the gleaming blades. How like and yet unlike a 'saber they were…. Still, he regretfully supposed, Bant would have very little interest in such artifacts – and besides, they were hardly unique to the region.

Household goods, tech parts, art priced far outside his limited means, linens, cleaning tools, hair ornaments. There were a good many females flocking to the latter merchant's business, but the padawan dismissed this as a possibility. Bant had no hair and ornaments of that kind were always discouraged. Clothing makers, jewelers, sporting goods – there was a thought – holo media, transport accessories, more tech parts… the variety of items offered for sale was dizzying, but none of the things laid out for his perusal or advertised on the blaring holo-marquees quite filled his requirements.

He bought some kind of native pastry stuffed with a savory vegetable paste and chased it with an enormous chilled muja confection, depleting his funds but replenishing his spirits. A side street beckoned him in with the promise of less sought-after merchandise, and he wandered at length into a dilapidated droid repair shop.

There was nobody in attendance, so the padawan entertained himself by rummaging through some of the spare parts bins and examining bits and pieces set upon shelves. Many of the models were antique, by Core-world standards. A few mystified him, for he could not guess at their function.

"Good noon," the proprietor mumbled, eventually manifesting from the hidden recesses of his storerooms. "What you have in your hand there is a hair trimmer."

Obi-Wan peered dubiously at the object.

"For nose and ears," the fellow continued. "Or any other orifice where extra filaments are inconvenient." He did not return the swiftly flashed grin of amusement this provoked. Instead he leaned over a greasy work-counter. "I know you aren't here looking for one of them personal grooming gadgets… so how can I do for you, young sir?"

"Ah… I'm just browsing," Obi-Wan replied, hoping that such behavior was an acceptable custom here. His casual remark did not have the intended effect, however; the owner perked up, and hit the control panel beside his counter, dimming the front windows to near opacity.

"Looking for a souvenir?" he said, in an eager tone. The Force shimmered, almost imperceptibly.

The padawan felt no _danger_ per se, but a subtle unease prickled at the base of his spine. His hand strayed toward his commlink, then brushed over his 'saber hilt, hidden beneath his cloak, before he shook off the feeling. "Yes, thank you. Something with local flavor."

The man nodded, rummaged beneath his countertop and then withdrew a small safebox with glimmering electroseal. "How much you want to spend?"

"Thirty tilma?" Something told him he was dabbling in trouble, but curiosity and newly burgeoning self confidence urged him onward. The word _illegal _formed itself in his mind. Whatever this concerned, he could report it to Qui-Gon and then to the proper authorities.

The man accepted his cash and handed him a small packet. "Okay, scram." The safe disappeared beneath the counter again.

He bowed, and exited, fingering the small plastiflim package in one hand. He shoved it into a belt pouch and strolled back toward the main thoroughfare, determined now to return to the capitol building and relate the story to Qui-Gon. Surely there was a lesson here somewhere. Especially in the serendipity that had turned his offhand declaration into a coded message. What were the odds of such an occurrence? And was there such a thing as chance? No. There was not. And so, this was meant to be.

His pace quickened, and he nearly trod upon the extended legs of a street beggar tucked into a shady corner. "Your pardon," he said, pausing mid-stride.

The drunken native extended a palsied hand and mumbled something unintelligible. Lighthearted, and thinking it suitable to squander the last bit of Qui-Gon's money upon impulsive generosity, the young Jedi dumped his remaining six tilma into the fellow's shaking palm and took his leave-

-only to be accosted by a pair of hovering security droids, and their accompanying uniformed officer.

"Halt right there, son."

Obi-Wan stopped, frowning a little. "Is there a problem?"

The police man swaggered forward. "You tell me. What were you paying that guy for right now, huh?"

Would a mind trick be inappropriate? Probably. "Nothing. It was charity."

"Panhandling is illegal, kiddo. So's giving handouts."

Oh. He bowed. "My apologies. I am from off-world – part of the Jedi delegation here for the summit."

"Yeah, right. Okay, I'm gonna need to search you. Yark's under suspicion of dealing and that puts you under suspicion of buying." The droids circled closer, discreetly mounted stun cannon cocked and ready.

It would be _very_ inappropriate to destroy the local police drones with his 'saber. Obi-Wan sighed, and folded back his cloak to reveal the weapon. "Look," he insisted. "I'm with the Jedi ambassadorial party. I was not aware of your local restrictions on … almsgiving."

The man whistled though his teeth. "Chisszzk. Where's your supervisor? How old are you, anyway?"

"Fourteen standard. I can contact my Master by commlink, if it will help clear matters up." He withdrew the small device from his belt, but the man's attention was arrested by the corner of plastiflim thus revelaed.

"Whatcha got there?"

_Blast it._ But a direct approach was often the best, was it not? And he did have diplomatic immunity. "That was given to me by the owner of the droid repair shop." He pointed down the street.

The police officer's eyes narrowed. "Oh yeah?" He coded something into a communicator on his belt, and one of the droids veered off down the narrow byway. "We'll investigate that lead." He reached for the packet, turning it over in his hands. He sniffed at the sealed opening. "Cheap hash-stim. Still, gonna have to ask you to come with me now." He pocketed the drug, gesturing toward a hovering speeder car at the street's terminus. The droid thrummed closer. "And, uh, I need to take your weapon."

Teeth grinding together, Obi-Wan surrendered his weapon and allowed himself to be ushered into the rear of the vehicle. At least there had been no talk of binders. He released a long breath, reflecting that his diplomatic immunity did _not _extend to Qui-Gon Jinn's considerable authority over his person. On the other hand, an honest misunderstanding was surely not grounds for reprimand, was it? This could be easily resolved.

He hoped.

"All right, let's get down to headquarters. I'll file a report, we'll contact this Master Jedi of yours, and then we'll see about this," the police man huffed, threading his way past the agora and its shops, en route to the local station.

* * *

Qui-Gon Jinn stirred out of a deep and refreshing meditation at the sound of his commlink chiming. He frowned slightly at the geolocator reading, which identified the incoming transmission as originating from Obi-Wan's transceiver, at a location outside the specified Inner City precinct.

"Padawan," he sternly answered.

A gruff voice replied. "Who's this?"

The tall man's heart skipped a fraction of a beat, but the placidity of the Force assured him that nothing terribly untoward had occurred. He cocked a brow. "This is Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn. To whom am I speaking?"

The brusque tone melted into a more deferential one, as though some private doubt had been set to rest. "My apologies for disturbing you, Master Jedi. Ah… this is Security SubStation 55. We have your apprentice, I think it is, in custody. Charges of buying and possessing illegal narcotic substances. I, uh, can arrange a release under diplomatic sanctions if you will personally identify and vouch for him."

The tall man blinked, caught off guard. "I see," he responded. "I will be there shortly."

He closed the link and tucked the device back into its pouch, reflecting wryly that it might have been better to accompany his Padawan on the proposed "exploration" after all. He shoved all hypotheses regarding Obi-Wan's current predicament to the back of his mind, pending whatever fantastic explanation awaited him at the police station, and strode purposefully for the door.

So much for a quiet afternoon.


	28. Chapter 28

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Out and About**

**Part 2**

Having been scanned and frisked and catalogued by the various automated staff, and then somewhat apologetically ushered into a small but mercifully clean holding cell in the substation's basement level, Obi-Wan found himself contemplating means of escape, almost reflexively. He had noted every exit, the location of the lighting control panels, the overhead vent shafts, the alarm system sensors, and the door locking mechanisms. If drilled by his master, he would have been able to accurately draw a map of the entire complex and suggest three different exit strategies, all of which involved an egregious abuse of power. On the way over, he had briefly considered leaping from the speeder and disappearing into the crowds… but he knew that , sooner or later, he would have to give a full and truthful account of his doings to Qui-Gon. He judged himself better off enduring the humiliation of being bailed out lawfully and honestly than trying to justify a dramatic violation of the local statutes. A Jedi was not above the law… at least, not a padawan out on a stroll without his master.

The officer who had apprehended him proved an amiable enough fellow. He spent a full three minutes gawking at the data-readout on his 'pad when he slotted Obi-Wan's ID chit into the interface. "Okay, kid, you got legit credentials. I'll just call this superior of yours… gotta follow protocol. Oh, and speaking of which, you need the fresher or some food?"

"I'm fine, thank you for your concern."

The man stood arms akimbo. "You know, " he mused. "Kid your age in here… we usually send 'em through the community service and rehab program. I have the informational vid here. I'll set it to play."

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth and endured in silence as a shielded projector in the corner cast the flickering holo-documentary into the open space before him. The production featured a multi-species assemblage of teens roughly his own age, all of whom recited their stilted lines with implausible enthusiasm, and none of whom would actually pass for a street thug on any known system in the galaxy. The sole human member of the cast was a freckled, tow headed boy wearing a garish ensemble of fashionable street clothes. This person's one claim to fame was the grating repetition of the officious safety slogan "just say no."

The young Jedi rolled back on the hard cell palette and wondered what would transpire were he to apply this advice in everyday life. The second or third time he _just said no _to his master's mandates, he would be facing consequences that made the purported results of hash-stim addiction look like a walk in the Coruscant Botanical Gardens. He wadded his cloak behind his head and did his best to ignore the remainder of the blaring educational holo, resolving never to succumb to the temptation of complaint about boredom and delays again.

* * *

The mag-lev taxi system deposited Qui-Gon Jinn within easy walking distance of the police substation. He bypassed the pedestrian swift tube and crossed the busy intersection on foot, adroitly dodging between whizzing cargo trams and rail-buses.

The guard on duty admitted him to the rear detention center without question, issuing him into a small anteroom manned by a pimple-faced cadet. A more experienced security officer sat behind a desk, tapping information onto a holo-display with a bent electro-stylus. This individual sprang to his feet upon the tall man's arrival, eyes widening in mild alarm at the imposing height and breadth of his visitor.

"Master Jinn?" he peeped.

"You have my apprentice in custody?" the Jedi master politely inquired.

"Ah, yes. Nice lad, very good manners… have to say, I was awfully surprised to find a young Jedi involved in such hooliganism." The man hesitated, judging whether his words had given offense. "The thing is, if you'll excuse me giving advice to your reverend self, Master Jinn…?"

"We may all benefit from the life wisdom of others," the tall man assured him.

A beaming smile of approval. "Just so. These talented youngsters – the ones with a lot of pressure and expectation on em – you know, they're just as likely to get involved in this stuff as the marginalized ones. You got a parental figure with impossible standards to meet, you got a drive for perfection… it makes for unhealthy psychological patterns. The need to escape. And these experimental drugs nowadays – whew. It ain't worth it. Kid needs an _ear, _ maybe. Sympathetic person he can confide in. I can tell you care – I mean, you're here to fetch him. I'd look on this more as an opportunity to grow than a failure. It's actually a blessing that I caught him when I did."

Qui-Gon regarded the man solemnly. "Your perspective is very enlightened. Would you be so kind as to show me the way?"

The flustered officer gestured him down a short flight of steps and into a basement level hallway lined with small cells. A handful were barred by energy fields, indicating an occupant. "Yes, here… " The man punched a code into the panel and released one of the shimmering barriers.

Qui-Gon leaned in the narrow door frame, careful to retain a severely impassive mien, despite the comically abashed expression on his padawan's face. Obi-Wan managed to make eye contact for a few seconds before dropping his gaze to the scrubbed plastocrete floor.

"He under your sole legal custody?" the police officer inquired.

"You could say that," the Jedi master replied.

Obi-Wan stood, mortification radiating off him in waves. "I'm truly sorry, Master."

Qui-Gon hooked both thumbs through his belt. "We will discuss the matter in private."

The security officer produced a datapad and thrust it beneath the tall man's nose. "Sorry to put you through this rigamarole, but you need to affix your print and signature here, here.. here… here. Diplomatic immunity applies, plus the usual statutes related to minors and off-worlders. I just gotta do my job. And, uh… hash stim." He wagged a finger at the young Jedi. "That's not a play-thing. And off the street like that – probably cut with some toxic additives."

The padawan managed a sober nod, anxiously awaiting his liberation.

"That's all in order," the policeman chuffed, tucking the document pad into a voluminous back pocket. He waved his prisoner forward. "All right, youngster, I'm releasing you to your own authorities here. But I feel obliged to send you off with a word to the wise: drugs is _not_ the way to take the pressure off or to find happiness. You gotta personal problem you need to solve… you talk to an adult you can trust. Hash stim won't give you any real answers, believe me." He jerked his head in Qui-Gon's direction. "He'll tell you the same thing, I bet."

The older Jedi smiled thinly, mercifully intervening at long last. "Thank you, officer. I instructed my padawan to investigate the inner city precinct this afternoon. I am happy to say we have discovered that your patrol does an admirable and principled job of fulfilling its duties." He laid a paternal hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder.

The security officer's mouth popped open in surprise, and then slowly formed into a sly smile. He nodded, sagaciously. "Oh ho… I see," he said. "We pass muster, eh? Well, you had me fooled, youngster… that's a good piece of work, now. We do our best," he added, pride swelling his chest. "I won't mention this, of course. I mean, in case you need to investigate other precincts, eh?"

"Your discretion is appreciated," Qui-Gon replied.

"Mum's the word,":the man assured them. He escorted them to the door in high spirits. "A pleasure – and sorry for the inconvenience."

"Not at all; we come to serve."

* * *

Once safely enclosed in a covered air-taxi, Qui-Gon activated the transport's back compartment sound-seal. "Now, Padawan mine. We are in private. And our police friend advised me to lend you a sympathetic ear. So _start talking_," he advised his young companion, who sat with cloak demurely bundled in his lap.

Obi-Wan's brows quirked upward in a pained valley, but words seemed to fail him. "I am sorry, Master. It was a misunderstanding."

Qui-Gon rested his head against the padded seat's back. "At the moment, Obi-Wan, we are closer to a total deficit of understanding."

"Yes, Master. Thank you for coming. And for .. what you said to the officer."

The tall man smiled thinly. "That was not for your sake, young one. Such a potentially scandalous incident had to be diffused. Negative publicity surrounding the Order would be a great detriment to the upcoming summit. The impression our friend formed was useful, inasmuch as it will keep your embarrassing actions quiet for the duration of the negotiations."

"Oh." The padawan's face fell, as the implications sank in. "I'm sorry."

Qui-Gon breathed out and regarded his student coolly."Why don't you start by telling me why you had a packet of low grade hash-stim on your person?"

Disabused of the notion that his master had come rushing halfway across the enormous capitol to save him personally, the young Jedi answered the question in a much subdued tone. "I bought it."

"I gathered as much," his companion dryly interjected. "But why?"

Obi-Wan threaded his fingers into a miserable knot amidst the folds of his cloak. "I went to the agora. I was shopping for a souvenir… for Bant." A swift glance upward, to gauge whether this innocent desire would itself prove damning, but Qui-Gon remained inscrutable. "I found nothing of special interest for a long while. I bought some food, wandered about a bit more, then entered a smaller side-street with older shops. I went into a droid repair shop, and when the owner asked me what I needed, I simply said I was browsing for a souvenir."

The tall man nodded.

"It was some kind of code word, Master. He ended up selling me the hash-stim before I really knew what was happening. But it seemed as though I should _flow_ with the situation.. I was headed back to show you when the police bots stopped me."

The older man's mouth tensed slightly as he suppressed a chuckle. "You decided to _flow_ with the situation."

"As you say, Master."

Qui-Gon exhaled loudly, on the verge of laughter. "By making an illegal drug deal."

"Yes, Master." A pause. "It didn't work out so well."

"No, indeed not. And you are well versed in the regulations concerning local planetary laws. I am concerned that you undertook this violation in far too cavalier a fashion."

Now Obi-Wan looked up boldly, a small flare of defiance drawing color into his cheeks. "But the Force guided me! It was the right thing to do.. I , I could feel it. It was meant to be. Why else would such a coincidence happen?"

Qui-Gon stilled his objections with a raised hand. "I have no doubt there was a purpose to be served. The Force moves in mysterious ways. In this case, I would not be surprised if your arrest and the information you passed on to the local security force led to the discovery and break-up of a drug-dealing ring. And that would be a good outcome." He let the words sink in. "But not for _you."_

The padawan blinked helplessly. "But I did what seemed _right,"_ he insisted.

The older man spread his palms. "Alas, obeying the will of the Force does not guarantee that events will issue into a convenient result for _ourselves._ In this case, your actions might have some good effect upon the city precinct in general. But they nonetheless remain problematic for you as an individual. We must not shrink from doing what is right, even if it costs us something personally."

His companion shrank back into the cushioned seat, defeated. "Yes, Master. So I'm… still in trouble."

The Jedi master relented a little. He placed a hand on his apprentice's knee. "Well, it wasn't such a very terrible transgression. I don't think we need to resort to cruel and unusual punishment."

Obi-Wan was too experienced or prematurely cynical to be consoled by such assurances. He watched Qui-Gon warily.

"To quote a wise man – not Master Seva, by the way – _this should be looked upon as an opportunity to grow more than a failure. _ I have here," – he produced a small holo-disk from his interior pocket- "the entire informational series 'Youth In Crisis – A Rehabilitational Program for Troubled Teens.' Since we are looking at yet another delay before the negotiations can officially commence, I think you will have time to peruse all seventeen hours of footage and complete the Self-Reflection Quizzes at the end of each segment."

Horror leached all color from his protégé's flushed face. "I would rather smoke hash-stim," the boy choked out. "Master…."

"No pleading," Qui-Gon warned. "This has the additional benefit of keeping you safely occupied while we wait to execute our duties here."

Obi-Wan's brows furrowed together into a truly fearsome line, but the tall man remained unperturbed.

"Look on the bright side – you can bring the holo-disk back to Bant as a souvenir of your adventures. I'm sure she will find the account most stimulating."

The padawan's jaw clenched tight in aggravation, but his only response was a tight, "Yes, Master."

Qui-Gon chuckled all the way back to the Keru Mutaar Hospitality Tower.


	29. Chapter 29

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Sick Leave**

Qui-Gon Jinn waved open the door to his quarters and smiled upon the sun-striped tableau laid out before him. Afternoon radiance spilled in bright bars of shadow and light through the angled window blinds over the balcony doors, painting the smooth floor in a harmonious pattern of parallels, glowing shafts gliding from the balcony threshold toward the meditation cushions, which had been pushed out of place, across a tea-cup and its amber dregs, over the low table – adorned with a blinking datapad, several holotexts, and another empty teacup - down to the floor again, around yet another abandoned tea-cup, and up to the worn settee he had imported from an unoccupied neighbor's apartment, upon which was sprawled a rumpled mass of cloak and twisted thermal blanket, a handheld holo-projector currently replaying Master Merr Benthos' edifying comparative astrobotanical lecture in an endless loop, and a gently snoring padawan.

Discarding his own cloak, he trod across the hushed and twilit common room as light-footed as a colwar, discreetly levitating all three teacups into his hands as he made his way into the adjacent kitchen nook and set about preparing his own infusion of strong tarine leaves. One eyebrow rose as he noted that the honey container had not been properly sealed, and that it was half-empty – but he merely popped the vacuum tightly into place and took an appreciative first sip of his own cup.

Back in the common room, he flicked fingers at the blinds, angling the shades upward so that the panoply of stripes now fell smoothly across the pale ceiling, and deftly extricated his holo-projector from Obi-Wan's loosely clasped fingers. Master Benthos was droning on about the natural defense mechanisms of common galactic kineto-flora, and Qui-Gon allowed the recorded explication to roll onward for a few more seconds before he regretfully switched the device off, reducing the revered expert's presence to a glimmering echo of blue light. He pocketed the small disk and settled in upon the nearest round meditation cushion to savor his tea and to breathe away the tension of the day, allowing his pent-up energy to dissolve into the Force's currents much as the rising steam coiled into the room's warm, 'cycled air.

Remaining sequestered in the Temple without assignment and with very minimal occasion to train his apprentice was not Qui-Gon's preference; he possessed an active temperament to match his broad frame and even more freely ranging opinions. But under present circumstances, there was little choice. Some rites of passage and milestones along the path must be endured, and surely the inevitable bout of bantha flu was one of these unavoidable bumps in the road to maturity. He had counseled Obi-Wan to be patient- and he so he must heed his own advice.

As though sensing the thought, his padawan finally stirred, perhaps subliminally registering the presence of his mentor, despite his mind-fogging illness. He levered himself upward muzzily, scowling into the darkened chamber and squinting through the gloom until his bloodshot eyes focused upon the Jedi Master's silhouette perched in the corner.

"Oh. Master," he rasped, by way of greeting.

"Good afternoon." There was no need to make quotidian inquiry after the young Jedi's health – the healers had callously declared that it would be best to allow the painful but not life threatening disease to run its course, thus incubating a strong lifelong immunity- and besides, the victim's mental shields were tenuous at best. Qui-Gon sat with closed eyes, serene in the moment.

"Uh." A patter of bare feet on the smooth floor, proceeding across the room at a gait uncharacteristically lacking in fluidity. The fresher door closed, then opened again a minute or two later, and the faltering steps made their way into the kitchen. There was the gentle thunk of ceramic set upon the counter, a muffled grunt, a muttered imprecation, and then a sharp ripple in the Force as the padawan failed twice and then succeeded admirably in wresting the vacuum seal off its jar.

"Obi-Wan," the tall man warned his protégé, "If you consume all the Phindian honey, you will be running a _marathon_ about the Temple perimeter one hour after the healers clear you for duty."

"Live in the moment," the impertinent rascal shot back, hoarsely. This declaration was followed by a softly mutinous clink of spoon being stirred in cup. Footfalls padded closer again, steadier now. A muted _thump_ as weight settled onto the opposite cushion.

Qui-Gon opened his eyes, mouth twisting in an effort to suppress his amusement. "You do realize that sick leave does not entail a suspension of _all_ obligations, young one."

His disheveled apprentice gulped down a scalding mouthful and coughed a bit on it. "Of course not, Master." His voice was still gravelly, congestion dulling the edges of his normally clipped syllables. "So our sparring match is still on."

"I think not," the older man snorted. "Quiet recuperative activity does not include being on the receiving end of a thrashing in the salles."

"But you're not recuperating, Master, so that restriction does not apply," came the inevitable sly rejoinder.

"However, Master Li did not proscribe you being on the receiving end of disciplinary action," Qui-Gon remarked, casually.

Obi-Wan frowned over his tea-bowl, weighing the risk-benefit ratio of making any further reply. Apparently illness had augmented his ordinarily feeble sense of self-preservation, for he merely dipped his head and took another long draught.

"I do have some good news, " the Jedi master continued, satisfied that he had won the bout. "Your friend Padawan Eerin is coming up to visit shortly."

Obi-Wan brightened visibly, then lapsed into another pensive scowl. "I thought I was _quarantined_." He imbued the term with a wide range of derogatory nuances.

"Mon Cal are not susceptible to bantha flu… and besides, Master Seva says, _it is better to meet mischief head on than vainly strive to contain it."_

The padawan graced his teacher with a look of sheerest affront, though it was unclear whether he objected more strongly to the sentiment or to the underhanded appropriation of his own favorite authority.

"I, too, have studied the aphorisms of the sages," the tall man reminded his student. He nodded at the tomes lying upon the table. "- Speaking of which, I was delighted to find that you were listening to Master Benthos' botanical excursus. He is a great devotee of the Living Force."

"I finished all my own books," Obi-Wan grumbled, defensively.

"Ah." Qui-Gon concealed his knowing smile by taking another long drink. "…Here comes Bant."

The door chime sounded a moment later. "I'll get it." Obi-Wan stood, hitched his sagging sleep pants up, shrugged his cloak closed over his bare chest and shuffled to the door to greet his childhood friend personally.

"Obi!" the enthusiastic apprentice healer peeped, tumbling over the threshold and wrapping her salmon-colored arms about him in a fierce embrace. "You look horrid."

"Thank you," the subject of this assessment intoned dryly.

Bant Eerin recovered from her initial excitement sufficiently to notice Qui-Gon, standing quietly at the common room's far end. "Master Jinn." She made him a deep bow.

The tall Jedi nodded graciously and bestowed a warm smile upon her- an easy sign of indulgence or affection that never failed to spark a tiny flutter of chagrin in his own severely disciplined padawan. Qui-Gon strode to the door, tweaked Obi-Wan's frazzled braid, and slipped into the corridor outside. "I'll have a droid bring up proper food for you," he told the pair of adolescents. "I'll be in the arboretum. Contact me by 'link if there's a problem you can't handle, Padawan Eerin."

"I'll take good care of him," the eager Mon Cal promised, to the Jedi master's satisfaction and her friend's manifest annoyance.

* * *

When the panel had slid shut again, Bant turned on her companion. "Stop pouting, Obi. Master Li sent me _specially. _ It's part of my training _and _I'm going to use you as a case study for my pathology coursework."

"We come to serve," her fellow padawan snipped, executing a mocking bow.

Bant snorted. "Stop being a grump or I won't give you the muja fruits I smuggled up from the garden."

"There aren't any in season-" Obi-Wan began to object.

"-Shows what you know. The hydroponic dome is chock full of things you can't even imagine."

Obi-Wan trudged back toward the old settee that had taken up residence beside the low table. "I can imagine quite a lot, Bant. And foraging in the greenhouses is _forbidden."_

Bant puffed out her round chest and blinked her enormous globular silver eyes in smug triumph. "Not for healers."

"Blast it." The patient threw himself down upon the couch, crossing his arms in vexation and propping one foot upon the opposite knee. "Why do healers have all the privileges?"

The Mon Cal girl settled primly beside him and opened her satchel. "Maybe you should be _friendlier _with the healers, so you can enjoy the side benefits." She rummaged in the flexible case, eventually producing three gorgeous, perfectly ripe muja fruits – which she jestingly withheld at arm's length. "Say please, with your best manners."

Her friend rolled his eyes, arched his borws and let his head fall back. He addressed the ceiling in his most bombastic style. "Oh Padawan Eerin, peerless font of munificence, take pity upon this poor wretch and enliven the pathetic and dreary trammels of his existence with a single gleaming ray of compassion. Preferably two or three, actually."

Bant handed over two of the round prizes and bit into the third herself. "You're full of the most amazing bantha chissk, Obi," she said, around a large mouthful.

Satisfied with his conquest, Obi-Wan favored her with a radiant grin. "Master Seva says, _suit your choice of weapon to your opponent – _ow!" Bant's good-natured slap sounded loudly against his thigh. "I thought you took an oath to do no harm?"

The Mon Cals' gleaming eyes narrowed. "I don't think that did you any harm, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Now." She thrust a webbed hand into her bag again and came up with datapad and stylus. "You can help me with my homework, since you are unfairly excused from your own. Oh! And I almost forgot. I'm supposed to take a blood sample. Another one, I mean. The authorities on Hession want a clean specimen so they can confirm the outbreak."

Obi-Wan bristled. "So now I'm a specimen?"

His comrade's mouth twisted humorously. "You've always been quite the specimen. Just accept it as the will of the Force. And give me your finger. Thank you."

He complied, with less than the perfect grace befitting a Jedi Knight, and then tucked his insulted hand back into the wide sleeve of his robe like a shelled amphibian retreating into the fastness of its carapace, while Bant slotted the sample into a reader.

"Okay. That's done." She picked up her 'pad again. "Why don't you relax? I'm going to interview you. Anecdotal evidence is important in tracing the origination of an epidemic."

"This is _not_ an epidemic, Bant. Hence the star-forsaken _quarantine."_

But the apprentice healer was not be put off so easily. She made several preliminary entries to her report and then paused, stylus suspended over the plate. "Crazy bantha fever is propagated by sand mites, right? So let's hear how you managed to get infested."

Obi-Wan released a throaty sigh reminiscent of Master Yoda at his most cantankerous.

"Mission?"

"No. Training exercise."

The Mon Cal padawan giggled a little. "I'm sorry," she smirked, apologetically. "But you are _so_ disaster prone. Let's hear the story."

He nibbled thoughtfully at the second muja, idly levitating the pit of its demolished companion into Qui-Gon' empty tea-bowl across the way. "I really can't tell you the story, Bant. It would be … compromising."

She frowned, large opalescent eyes studying him warily. "To your dignity?" she scoffed. "Believe me, I've seen you-"

"No. There were certain… aspects… of our undertaking which need to remain off the record."

The Mon Cal girl propped both hands upon her hips, bunching her tunics beneath balled fists. "What are you talking about? You make it sound like some kind of clandestine operation…" A gasp of dawning realization. She pointed a webbed finger at him. "You and Master Jinn broke a local planetary law, didn't you? You two are incorrigible! That's shameful!"

Obi-Wan bolted upright, color surging into already flushed cheeks. "I didn't say that!" His mouth tightened, stubbornly. "And it wasn't my idea, anyway."

Bant tucked the 'pad back into her bag. "Fine. I won't record it. So much for my pathology project. But I still want to hear the story." She leaned forward, eager and attentive.

Obi-Wan heaved a deep breath and launched into his narrative, in a tone of academic abstraction. "Well, then. It all began with the dancing bull kata."

TBC


	30. Chapter 30

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**Flow**

_**(continued from Sick Leave)**_

The _boex chorum _moving meditation, better known in the whimsical vernacular of the Jedi tradition as the "dancing bull" kata, was not a formally choreographed saber exercise. Properly speaking it was not a kata at all, but rather a state of harmony between body and mind and a rapidly shifting environment. He who had mastered the _boex chorum _could fairly be considered the consummate artist, one who had learned to flow within the Living Force like supple wind over mutable wave.

According to legend, the form's originator – Master Savron Tychorrion – had danced across the backs of a stampeding herd of long-horned _ibarrix, _somersaulting and leaping over their surging bodies while simultaneously performing the most rigid and demanding of saber drills. His astounded students, upon witnessing the feat, marveled at his agility and the complexity of his maneuver - to which misplaced adulation he sternly responded, "The Force flowed; I merely was carried."

And who had not heard of the revered sages of yore, 'saber masters who could spar effortlessly while balanced nimbly, almost weightlessly, upon the elegantly waving stalks of a giant mabuu field?

Obi-Wan Kenobi had heard of them; had in fact read of them since he was old enough to read anything, pored over the holotexts detailing their prowess and their pithy, inscrutable wisdom, dreamt of someday emulating their skill and peerless connection to the Force, had nurtured an admiration for such excellence until his private enthusiasm had spilled over the bounds of personal interest into impassioned speech, into animated chatter and incessant queries – and from thence, into trouble.

For Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn was not one to respond to such an oft-repeated and much-belabored question with anything so pedestrian as an _answer. _ His was the direct approach, in pedagogy as in action. "If you are so keen to know about it, Padawan, you must master it yourself."

"But I –"

"Ah." The tall man held up a warning finger. "Balking at a task is no way to achieve perfect _flow._ Your focus from now until the moment you achieve your goal is this: learn the _boex."_

And that was that. No further instruction had been issued. And Obi-Wan understood that this was a thing that must be discovered, not imparted. He started immediately, and hammered way at it steadily for weeks, exhausting every opportunity and angle of inquiry that presented itself. What there was to be gleaned from the Archives he had already long ago ferreted out; the Temple resident weapons-masters proved somewhat more helpful than Qui-Gon, offering him use of the moving obstacle course as a playground in which to experiment with the sought-after skill; long meditations in obscure and unlikely places such as roof girders or a scrap of wood afloat upon the arboretum's artificial river had yielded scraps of insight. The _boex_ occupied his every spare waking hour and haunted his dreams, his inherent drive for perfection forbidding any less intense devotion.

Until the day when, unpredictably as ever, Qui-Gon Jinn again decided to interfere. "And how goes your study of the _boex?" _he asked, innocently enough, as the two of them strolled along the upper level concourses en route from one appointment to another.

Off guard, Obi-Wan simply blurted out the truth. "I've made progress, Master, but it's frustrating. The Temple is such a controlled environment, and the dancing bull kata is meant to be spur of the moment, spontaneous and –" He stopped himself then, too late realizing what perilous territory he had stumbled into.

The tall Jedi master beamed with pleasure. "Excellent. That is progress indeed. You cannot move forward any further while we are here. I've petitioned the council for permission to take you on a training exercise to Hession."

"Hession?" the man's padawan repeated, a faint ringing of alarm already sounding in his mind. The system had been declared a nature preserve by the Republic, most the major inhabitable planet and several moons of outlying satellites strictly maintained as sanctuary to some of the galaxy's most untamed and exotic ecosystems and their fierce inhabitants.

"Yes," Qui-Gon tranquilly explained. "The equatorial savannah regions, I think. We are looking for a place where the Living Force _flows,_ unrestricted and powerfully. It should be perfect."

By which the infamous renegade undoubtedly meant _dangerous_ and most certainly _uncivilized. _ But it was certainly not the place of a Jedi padawan to question his teacher's decisions, especially those touching upon his own training. The younger member of the party had no choice but to respond with a traditionally submissive, "Yes, Master."

"Good," the tall man smiled, grey eyes twinkling in merry anticipation of their impending escape into Nature writ large. "Pack a bag. Our transport leaves tomorrow at dawn."

* * *

Space travel was not Obi-Wan's proverbial cup of tea, but it did provide him with an unusual arena in which to distract himself during the lengthy transit from Coruscant out to Hession on the borders of Republic controlled space. Their modest older-model shuttle – older, for their journey did not merit the same priority in vehicle requisitions as a peacekeeping mission – had the bonus feature of a cargo hold with its own sub-station grav-generator. In a pinch, its contents could be magnetically tethered to bulkheads and deck plates, allowing the pilot to divert all available energy to the thrusters. Now, this bubble of enclosed plastoid paneling became the ideal training ground for the dancing bull kata.

The padawan powered down the gravity and watched in amusement as the few empty crate and tool cases he had scrounged up from the shipboard storage lockers slowly floated into mid-air, bobbing delicately in the vessel's' inertial motion. A wave of his hand, and they went tumbling and careening in every direction, bouncing off ceiling and walls, randomly crashing together and rebounding, a veritable asteroid field of moving objects. He swam, with a twist and a somersault or two, into the center of this obstacle course and powered on his 'saber, shaking his head a bit as his inner ear protested the lack of any discernible direction.

The Force, only the Force. He swept into motion, performing a weightless version of the Ataru level three velocity while dipping and turning, diving and corkscrewing in mid-air to avoid the languidly meandering maze of boxes and empty storage containers. His 'saber sang happily in the enclosed space, narrowly avoiding passing items, the decks, the ceiling, the sealed pressure doors. A scorch mark or two adorned the bulkheads by the time he had done three repetitions, but he was grinning fiercely, aware that he had not collided with a single floating box, aware that his _focus _had left its own ripple pattern in the Force, transforming the sluggish undulations of dimensionless hyperspace into a singularity, an _event _ within surrounding nothingness, a joyful explosion of Life amidst bland and swirling latency.

The gravity abruptly kicked back in, sending both crates and padawan tumbling to the decks. Obi-Wan twisted hard, landing on his feet and one hand like a startled felix as the interior hatch popped open to admit Qui-Gon Jinn's towering figure.

"I see," the Jedi master remarked. "I was wondering what all that disturbance was about."

"You said I should spend the time in meditation," his apprentice pointed out.

"You are a restless spirit, Obi-Wan." The older man used the Force to sweep the bay's jumbled contents in to a neat pile against the starboard side. "There will be ample time and opportunity to practice the _boex chorum_ when we land. I've submitted a geological survey and found the ideal location."

There was just the slightest _hesitancy _in this statement – a subtlety of inflection that would have passed unobserved by any other audience. "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?" Obi-Wan groused, cocking his head curiously to one side.

Qui-Gon hooked both thumbs through his belt and snorted, drawing himself up to his impressive height. "Anxiety is not the best starting point for this exercise," he declared. "The dancing bull is about _flow. _And that precludes any attention to the future."

His student's brows rose, anticipating the lecture to come.

"The Force springs endlessly from the present moment; to fret over the future is to remove oneself from that center of being, to a periphery where the self seeks certainty and anchor. In the present, in the Force, there is no safety and certainty such as the ego craves."

"Because this is the creative origin, the source of strength and potential. We must seek not to stand firm but to flow endlessly within it," Obi-Wan finished. He had heard it before, been drilled in it until he knew the words by heart. Or at least, by rote.

Qui-Gon's lips twitched. "Am I boring you, Padawan mine?"

"No, Master." A hasty denial, made by one all too aware of the consequences of confessing to ennui.

"Hm. Come up to the cockpit. Hession is spectacular from orbit."

Obi-Wan grabbed his cloak and went forward to behold the splendors of the untamed world from a height of fifty thousand meters.

* * *

It was at this point in the narrative that Bant saw fit to interrupt her companion. "Wait a moment. Hession is almost entirely registered non-interactive status. I mean, sentient aren't even _allowed _inside the reserve areas – just the research stations. Where did you go again?"

Obi-Wan lifted a brow. "I told you there were… compromising aspects."

"I'll say. Tell me you didn't violate the conservation protocol."

"We didn't violate the protocol," her friend boldly asserted. "From a certain point of view."

The Mon Cal glowered. "I'm surprised that Master Jinn would have such disregard for ecological integrity. I thought he was always a champion of the Living Force and –"

The door chime sounded again, heralding the arrival of a Temple service bot with supper, delivered to the prisoner in his tower. Bant fetched the tray and set its contents upon the low table. "Mandrangea beans," she cheerfully announced. "Bread. Torrfli. And blue milk. Veeery nourishing for humans."

Obi-Wan dutifully tucked in, making a face at the torffli but facing his fate bravely. "It's complicated," he assured Bant between unenthusiastic mouthfuls. "If you were to ask my master, he would tell you that the preservation laws are well-founded and needful. But he would also tell you that the premise they rest upon is faulty. According to him, the Living Force – and its physical manifestation – inherently involves conflict and change, challenge to stasis, and the assimilation of novel elements. To artificially control the environment _too_ thoroughly is to stunt Nature in his sense."

"You cannot step in the same river twice," Bant agreed, quoting a well known aphorism.

"Yes. So he felt that introducing ourselves – in a mindful fashion, of course – into a system that had never before been touched by sentients would be ethically permissible, even good, albeit illegal. And that it would set off a kind of …"-he gestured vaguely with his free hand- "well, _event horizon _ in the Force."

Bant's deep pink skin paled. "Oh stars, Obi," she muttered.

"Yes, well," he responded, with a sardonic smile .He emptied the milk cup and set aside his half-eaten portions.

"So… you invaded the native life forms' territory to… what? Encounter true unpredictability? To ride the edge?"

Obi-Wan nodded, grimacing. "You're beginning to know Master Jinn well."

"Break the rules, push the boundaries of experience… take insane risks, and live to tell the tale with a straight face," the Mon Cal huffed. "You aren't going to emulate this in future are you?"

Her companion shrugged noncommittally. As much as he might grouse and issue strident protestations in the great man's presence, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that Qui-Gon Jinn inspired a reverence verging on hero worship in his young apprentice.

"Obi!" Bant scolded.

"I won't tell the tale with a straight face," he offered.

The young healer rolled her luminous, bulging silver eyes. "You're impossible. So what happened?"

He leaned back, gaze distant, as though peering into memory's depths. "We landed near the equator on the western hemisphere. The continent there is unique – grassland plains run up against an antediluvian mountain range. Wind erosion produces these rivers of girt and silt, that run off down the savannah in slow streams, like glacial thaw on other systems. They're called flowing sands, I think. Anyway, we hiked out from the ship about five klicks, having a look around. It was… amazing. I've never felt anything like it."

"Tell me," Bant begged.

Obi-Wan teasingly smiled. "You don't want to hear about the stampeding _ibarrix?"_

"I want to hear the whole thing, you gundark! Stop baiting me."

His smile broadened into a sprightly grin. "Patience, young Bant. Patience."

**TBC**


	31. Chapter 31

**Growing Pains**

* * *

**The Dancing Bull**

**(continued from Flow)**

Wind lifted diaphanous pennants of golden sand off the slow-moving river, spinning them out into ghostly banners against the burning blue sky of Hession's equatorial savannah regions. Deep-carved valleys rolling down between the ragged mountains' feet were filled with pale granules, an endless cascade of sand pouring out into the rumpled plains below in a wide network of streams and rivulets, the omnipresent wind whipping and driving them before itself. The grasslands spread out to the horizon below, hardy flora tenaciously rooted in unforgiving soil, trees dotted here and there like the whimsical brushwork of some delicate ink painting, deceptive rolls of land rising and falling in demure succession, concealing dips and valleys beneath bland ramparts of green-gold. Overhead, clouds reflected a blinding white sun, piled in impossible pillars to heaven's very roof. The Force _tolled_ like a great bell, like a primal drum, thundering with the unspoiled power of an abysmal ocean.

Obi-Wan was half reeling on his feet by the time they had hiked out four klicks from the ship, now invisible behind one of those illusory dells in the landscape.

"What do you think?" Qui-Gon Jinn inquired, spreading both arms wide to encompass the wild planet in its entirety, turning a reverent half-circle in place, his leonine face tilted skyward.

"Overwhelming. In a good way, I think," his apprentice replied, shading his eyes from the too-bright influx of sunlight.

"It is better than I anticipated," the Jedi master decided, voice ringing with happiness. "Flow with it, Padawan. We are part of the Force, too."

Indeed they were. And here that presence that surrounded them, penetrated them, bound all things together, was felt as a pressure colilng about the lower spine, a scintillating light burning in the lungs, a giddy tautening of every nerve, almost vertigo-inducing. "Yes, Master," Obi-Wan gasped, staggering along beside Qui-Gon's imperturbable figure as they pushed further into the wilderness.

Senses heightened to a liminal tension between pleasure and pain, he was acutely aware of the soft crunch of dried grass beneath their boots, the rhythmic pumping of two hearts and the easy labor of their breathing, the shimmer they made in the air as their body heat and the rustle of their clothing announced their passage. Like two polished stones dropped into some tranquil pool, he felt the tiny ripple spread out from their minds – from the twin points of consciousness into the tympanum of the Force. The ripple spread, echoing down the invisible corridors of the infinite, resounding to the horizon, and then was magnified into a shudder, into a torrent, into a cresting wave. There were no other focal points to disperse and re-focus the eddies of influence, no layers of time and experience to mute its rising power. The Force roared beneath them, within them, gathering power like an avalanche, the world outwardly still, unaffected while the subtle change swept over it like crackling fire over driest grass, consuming and transforming.

"Master…?" Obi-Wan choked out, feeling his center shift, expand, fall into the thrall of this thundering wave.

Beside him, rapt and utterly still, Qui-Gon's eyes held a fey light, like that of a sailor facing down a monumental tsunami, leaning far over his tiny prow into the heart of some colossal storm. "Gorgeous," the Jedi Master murmured.

_Terrifying, _his apprentice thought – and yet they meant the same thing, for here they were equals in ignorance, in humility. The Force rose and rose until it was a curling wave crashing down endlessly upon this untouched shore, and they were like foam carried along its crest, ephemeral points of light sparkling beneath a supernal sun.

"_Be carried,"_ Qui-Gon warned – and that was the last he uttered, for even as they stood breathless upon the ridge of a deep depression, the disturbance found outlet in the physical. Wind rose screaming and lifted the rivers of sand into the sky, twisting columns of gold roaring skyward, wildly writhing even as they fanned out tendrils of biting grit in all directions. The earth shook beneath their boots as countless hooves pounded nearer, a mighty herd of animals scourged into panic by the shift in balance, by the wind and the sky and the wild, intuitive connection such beasts had to the Force.

The Jedi split apart, dashing for opposite ends of the ridge just before the stampede crested the last rise and was upon them, an army in battle array, all cruel sloping horns and spilt hooves and massive, glistening hides and flared nostrils, white eyes, power and fear and speed. The _ibarrix_ bore down upon them like a devastating tide, baying and snorting and hammering the earth into a frenzied dust cloud, even as the swirling sandstorm beat at their bodies and sent them into a pitched berzerker frenzy.

As though from a dreamer's perspective, Obi-Wan glimpsed Qui-Gon _go down_ amidst the crushing hooves and tearing horns, his cream tunics sucked under the crazed torrent of animals, mowed down without ceremony or fight.

His scream of denial was drowned in the same flood, the wall of dark muscle and pointed horn rushing up to meet him. And then it happened.

Whether sheer desperation- or the shock to his system occasioned by Qui-Gon's fall, or some capricious dictate of fate- was the cause, he might never know. But in the next instant, he was no longer standing before the onslaught. He was above it, astride it, riding the flood of its power like a bird upon wind, like wind over mutable wave. The Force poured torrential through his blood, through the air, thorugh the _ibarrix, _through the giddily spinning planet itself - these no longer disparate but all one compacted unity, a kaleidoscopic refraction of the one Life - and he was _carried._

He flowed, leaping and spinning over the backs of the surging beasts, touching down upon one heaving back only to spring lightly up again, careening and diving through the maze of wicked horns and trampling feet, rolling and arcing in the air, never missing a landing, never _thinking,_ never _questioning,_ only moving within and upon the Force, weightless because he was already at his center, the center of the universe, the present moment, the pivot upon which all balance hung.

The ibarrix bellowed and stamped and stormed onward, sand and wind howling in their wake. Obi-Wan spiraled thorugh the air, springing off the striped back of the last straggler, and landed in a deep crouch beside his master's prone form, fear only now lancing the thiin armor of his focus, shattering that perfection into painful shards of need and bright, sickening panic.

"Master! Master!"

But the tall man merely propped himself up on both elbows and chuckled deeply, grinning unabashedly as the sand settled all about them, dusting them in finest gold, in white and glittering rain.

Obi-Wan panted, eyes streaming as particles fluttered in past his lashes, breath coming in great shuddering gasps as the Force left him, flowing onward with the wind, leaving him like dried jetsam upon the shores of his own identity. "But, but –"

A broad hand touched his cheek. "I was in no danger," Qui-Gon assured him. "They flowed around me; it is a simple matter of mind-influence. I am sorry, Padawan."

The young Jedi collapsed back onto his heels and then his rump, shaking as the power drained away, teeth rattling together and skin prickling with chill. "Ugh…Master!" he protested, not sure whether he resented the flare of agonized sorrow he had been occasioned, or the wracking side-effects of such deep absorption in the Force.

The Jedi master rolled upright, holding him by the shoulders now. "Easy, young one. You do realize what you just accomplished?"

Obi-Wan shook his head, wondering vaguely if he was going to pass out. The grass was crushed beneath them, and a sweet-sharp scent rose to his nostrils, the strangely brutal incense of this place. "I don't… the _boex?"_

Qui-Gon beamed upon him. "Padawan. You have just performed the dancing bull kata upon the backs of a charging herd of _ibarrix. _You were completely one with the Living Force- I felt it."

His student glanced back over his shoulder at the retreating line of beasts, already dwindling toward the horizon. He had done _nothing;_ the Force had merely carried him. He shook his head again, in mute denial. Surely Qui-Gon could see that this was nothing to be credited to his skill or dedication.

The tall man pulled gently on his braid, claiming his attention. "I knew you were capable," he said, softly, a world of praise in the simple words. "Master Tychorrion was a very great Jedi."

Accepting the hand proferred him, Obi-Wan pulled himself to his feet and gazed round at the eerily silent savannah. "Are we done here?" he asked, wincing at the childishly hopeful undercurrent in his own cracking voice.

Qui-Gon released a forlorn sigh. "Unfortunately, yes. We've already violated a handful of galactic statutes by landing here. Best not to tempt fate too brazenly."

_As opposed to what we have just done, of course,_ his padawan wryly appended, in the privacy of his own thoughts. They tramped back toward the ship, brushing sand out of hair and sleeves, sneezing it out of noses and mouths, blinking it from gritty eyes.

"A very successful exercise," Qui-Gon decided, leading the way across the sun-kissed grasslands.

* * *

"Wait a moment!" Bant interrupted, no longer able to contain herself. "He threw himself down in front of charging _ibarrix_ on purpose?"

The implication of certifiable mental unsoundness was clear in her tone. Obi-Wan smiled a bit. "Master Jinn never ceases to amaze."

The Mon Cal was nonetheless offended by the revered Jedi master's effrontery. "He tricked you! He did that- and, and you responded by throwing yourself in harm's way – that's just ridiculous, Obi."

He shrugged. "It worked. Up to a point."

"I can't believe you performed the _boex chorum._ Just like Master Tychorrion!"

Obi-Wan scoffed at the suggestion. "I told you, Bant, this was completely different… it was a fluke. Although…" he paused, studying his hands.

"What?"

"Well… what Master said about the Living Force. It was as though – just for a moment – well, it was like being carried. Like being one thing with everything else. With the Force. It was… amazing. A bit like flying."

Bant snorted. "You hate flying."

He laughed. "And I'm not sure I ever want to do that again, either!"

The apprentice healer's vestigial gills flared. "I hope you don't." She returned to the original subject with the all the characteristic tenacity of her race. "So. The sand mites. Those animals were covered in them, and then the microscopic ones… you had sand everywhere, probably in your ear canals and up your sinuses and _everything-"_

Ob-Wan grimaced. "And the ship is old. No sonics. We had to wait for a shower until we arrived back at the Temple."

"By which time you were sick as an akk. I hope Master Jinn appreciates what a lot of trouble this little training exercise cost."

Her friend smothered a cough and slumped a little further into the cushions. "Well."

Bant harrumphed and rose to prepare tea. She dared not voice her full opinion of the maverick Jedi's hijinks on front of his apprentice, especially when the latter person was in a grouchy frame of mind. She slowly released her own protective chagrin into the Force and carefully stirred a copious quantity of honey into both bowls, mouth puckering tightly as she reflected that Qui-Gon Jinn probably ought to be quarantined himself, simply on grounds of being a public menace.

She returned into the common room only to discover that her companion was sound asleep again, draped comfortably over one end of the worn settee. She set the tea bowls down, spread the thermal blanket over him, and took up sentinel's post at the opposite end, experimentally perusing one of his incredibly dry and convoluted history texts while she sipped at her own cooling tea. The honey was first-rate.

An hour later, Master Jinn returned.

" I see you've worn our young friend out," he addressed her with a small upward quirk of his mouth. "Well done. That is a feat I myself can seldom accomplish."

Bant gathered her things. "He told me the _entire story_ about your trip to Hession," she grunted, not bothering to conceal the accusation latent in her words.

But as always, the Temple's most notorious rebel either remained oblivious or simply did not care.

"Thank you, Padawan Eerin." he murmured, making her a short half bow. "I'm sure your visit was much appreciated. The quarantine does not sit well with Obi-Wan's nerves."

The Mon Cal heaved a sigh, despairing of the tall man's reformation. "Tell him good bye. I'll see if Master Li can spare me again soon – but it should only be a few more days. He seems much improved already." She hoisted her satchel over one shoulder and prepared to depart.

Qui-Gon Jinn nodded, courteously escorting her to the door. "Yes," he agreed, serenely. "The Force is very strong with him."


End file.
